The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil; Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
The brazen throat of war.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
A man may be ungrateful, but the human race is not so.
For evil news rides post, while good news baits.
Lifted up so high I disdained subjection, and thought one step higher would set me highest.