Oh good gray head which all men knew!

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.

Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.

Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.

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

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.