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

A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.

What are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.