A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

Virtue must shape itself in deed.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.

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

That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.