For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.

The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.

Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.

The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.

For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.

Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?

But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.