A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!

The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.

Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

I loved my country, and I hated him.