He with a graceful pride, While his rider every hand survey'd, Sprung loose, and flew into an escapade; Not moving forward, yet with every bound Pressing, and seeming still to quit his ground.

As one that neither seeks, nor shuns his foe.

We first make our habits, and then our habits make us.

For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.

The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.

Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave deserves the fair.

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky