Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.

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.

A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.

the shell must break before the bird can fly.

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

Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!