And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
The very best of vineyards is the cellar
History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.