The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.
Poetry should only occupy the idle.
If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.
Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylรฆ!