Look, then, into thine heart, and write!
Joy, temperance, and repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose.
It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.
No man is so poor as to have nothing worth giving.
There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.