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

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

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

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.