They never fail who die in a great cause.
Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.
He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolish'd the right arm Of his own country.