They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.
Good to forgive, Best to forget.
Needs there groan a world in anguish just to teach us sympathy?
White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so; life's business being just the terrible choice.
Oh, to be in England now that April's there.
The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.