The last great Englishman is low.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.

I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

Virtue must shape itself in deed.

A louse in the locks of literature.