Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.

The bearing and the training of a child Is woman's wisdom.

Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.

Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.

Love is the only gold.

Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.