God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.

You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.

With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world!

And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair; And they heard the words it said,- "Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!"

Men of science, osteologists And surgeons, beat some poets, in respect For nature,-count nought common or unclean, Spend raptures upon perfect specimens Of indurated veins, distorted joints, Or beautiful new cases of curved spine; While we, we are shocked at nature's falling off, We dare to shrink back from her warts and blains.

He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?