And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.

Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that fame is half disfame.

The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.

Let observation with extended observation observe extensively.

A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.