For of all hard things to bear and grin, / The hardest is knowing you're taken in.

O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.

Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?

One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.

And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!

Women are only told that they resemble angels when they are young and beautiful; consequently, it is their persons, not their virtues, that procure them homage.

Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the living heart.