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

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

All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.