Come, see the north-wind's masonry, Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion.

I dip my pen in the blackest ink, because I'm not afraid of falling into my inkpot.

I didn't find my friends; the good Lord gave them to me.

The hero sees that the event is ancillary: it must follow him.

And truly it demands something god like in him who has cast off the common motives of humanity, and has ventured to trust himself for a taskmaster. High be his heart, faithful his will, clear his sight, that he may in good earnest be doctrine, society, law, to himself, that a simple purpose may be to him as strong as iron necessity is to others!

The world is his who has money to go over it.

Let us leave hurry to slaves.