All bayonets are bad.
Isn't your life extremely flat,With nothing to grumble at?
The idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone, All centuries but this, and every country but his own.
You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of complicated state of mind. The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of a transcendental kind.
In all the woes that curse our race there is a lady in the case.
When every blessed thing you have is made of silver, or of gold, you long for simple pewter.