God's finger touched him, and he slept.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.
But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.