A world where nothing is had for nothing.

My wind is turned to bitter north, That was so soft a south before; My sky, that shone so sunny bright, With foggy gloom is clouded o'er My gay green leaves are yellow-black, Upon the dank autumnal floor; For love, departed once, comes back No more again, no more.

Thou shalt not covet; but tradition approves all forms of competition.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright!

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, but westward, look, the land is bright.

And almost everyone when age, disease, or sorrows strike him, inclines to think there is a God, or something very like him.

Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat.