And lips say “God be pitiful,” Who ne'er said “God be praised.”

An ignorance of means may minister to greatness, but an ignorance of aims make it impossible to be great at all.

There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.

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.

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

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.