The last great Englishman is low.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room

If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.

Better not be at all than not be noble.