No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.
Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
The laws I love; the lawyers I suspect.