Too much wit makes the world rotten.

Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.

That which we are, we are.

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.

I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.