Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.

And how am I to face the odds Of man's bedevilment and God's? I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrist? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;The wind it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

Oh I have been to Ludlow fair, and left my necktie God knows where. And carried half way home, or near, pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.

Some men are more interesting than their books but my book is more interesting than its man.

I find Cambridge an asylum, in every sense of the word.