A field of glory is a field for all.

Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.

He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

It is not so much the being exempt from faults, as having overcome them, that is an advantage to us.

Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?

Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.