Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.

You never know what life means till you die; even throughout life, tis death that makes life live.

In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle.

Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.

Look not down but up!

It is the glory and good of Art, That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine at least.

Needs there groan a world in anguish just to teach us sympathy?