There is nothing that making men rich and strong but that which they carry inside of them. True wealth is of the heart, not of the hand.

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure, all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train.

More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchang'd To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days, On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues.

Infinity is a dark illimitable ocean, without bound.

For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrowers, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè.

The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.

Is it true, O Christ in heaven, that the highest suffer the most? That the strongest wander furthest and most hopelessly are lost? That the mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain? That the anguish of the singer makes the sweetness of the strain?