Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.