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

Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.

That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.

Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.

A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied.