But who is this, what thing of sea or land,- Female of sex it seems,- That so bedeck'd, ornate, and gay, Comes this way sailing Like a stately ship Of Tarsus, bound for th' isles Of Javan or Gadire, With all her bravery on, and tackle trim, Sails fill'd, and streamers waving, Courted by all the winds that hold them play, An amber scent of odorous perfume Her harbinger?

And out of good still to find means of evil.

And feel that I am happier than I know.

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.

This is servitude, To serve the unwise.

To be blind is not miserable; not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.

Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.