My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.

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

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.

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

The greater man the greater courtesy.

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?

Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.