We grow gray in our spirit long before we grow gray in our hair.

Since all the maids are good and lovable, from whence come the bad wives?

To sigh, yet feel no pain; To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.

To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.