It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

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

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!

The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.

Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.

Nature, red in tooth and claw.