Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past.

Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Hev one glory an' one shame; Ev'y thin' thet' s done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same.

Nature fits all her children with something to do, he who would write and can't write, can surely review.

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it; We are happy now because God wills it.

Time makes ancient good uncouth.

Fortune is the rod of the weak, and the staff of the brave.

Reading Chaucer is like brushing through the dewy grass at sunrise.