And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.

O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!

I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to my grey friar's frock, and all shall be well again.

The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.

What a strange scene if the surge of conversation could suddenly ebb like the tide, and show us the real state of people's minds.

Stood for his country's glory fast, And nailed her colors to the mast!

The will to do, the soul to dare..