Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

What female heart can gold despise? What cat 's averse to fish?

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.