I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.

Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.

Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.

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