That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
Who is wise in love, love most, say least.
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.
The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.
Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.