Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.
A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
Think not I am what I appear.
A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain