By blood a king, in heart a clown.
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away.
Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.
Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
Who is wise in love, love most, say least.