With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
Where there is much desire to learn, there of necessity will be much arguing, much writing, for opinion in good men is but knowledge in the making.
My heart contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.
Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.