There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

I see before me the gladiator lie.

The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.

Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never

No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.

As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.