Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths.
To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.