For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a poem.

Sorrow looks back, Worry looks around, Faith looks up

It is very odd that Nature should be so unscrupulous. She is no saint . . .

The maxim of courts is that manner is power.

It is the fine souls who serve us, and not what is called fine society. Fine society is only a self-protection against the vulgarities of the street and the tavern.

For the existing world is not a dream, and cannot with impunity be treated as a dream; neither is it a disease; but it is the ground on which you stand, it is the mother of whom you were born.

It is greatest to believe and to hope well of the world, because he who does so, quits the world of experience, and makes the world he lives in.