This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.

She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.

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

It was not the apple on the tree but the pair on the ground that caused the trouble in the garden of Eden.

He who breathes deepest lives most.

Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use