"Why, what would you?"
"Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemnèd love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Hallow your name to the reverberate hills
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out 'Olivia!' O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me."
"You might do much."
(Maybe not strictly one line, nor strictly philosophy. But who's being strict, or philosophical, round here? I follow my instincts, and this is what occurred to me.)