The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.

And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.