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

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The mighty hopes that make us men.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

Let observation with extended observation observe extensively.

Nature, red in tooth and claw.