The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.

The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

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.

They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up.

Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.

To be a textual critic requires aptitude for thinking and willingness to think; and though it also requires other things, those things are supplements and cannot be substitutes. Knowledge is good, method is good, but one thing beyond all others is necessary; and that is to have a head, not a pumpkin, on your shoulders and brains, not pudding, in your head.