Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.

In ourselves are triumph and defeat.

Some critics are like chimney-sweepers; they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above; they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it.

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters