That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

Not once or twice in our rough island story, The path of duty was the way to glory.

Who is wise in love, love most, say least.