As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

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

To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

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

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.