'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls.
Any nose may ravage with impunity a rose.
Every one soon or late comes round by Rome.
Pippa's Song The year's at the spring The day's at the morn Morning's at seven, The Hill side's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing The snail's on the thorn God's in his heaven- All's right with the world
In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.
No, when the fight begins within himself, / A man's worth something.