There's no glory like those who save their country.
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
It is hard to wive and thrive both in a year.
Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.
I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.