Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.

God and Nature met in light.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.