Peace is in the grave.

When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, has led two hosts of dupes to battlefield, That, blind, they there may dig each other's graves, And call the sad work glory.

Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.

Poet's food is love and fame.

Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.

One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it.

Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.