It is only when I dally with what I am about, look back and aside, instead of keeping my eyes straight forward, that I feel these cold sinkings of the heart.

Alas!... what is it, valiant knight, save an offering of sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a passing through the fire of Moloch? What remains to you as a prize of all the blood you have spilled, of all the travail and pain you have endured, of all the tears which your deeds have caused, when death hath broken the strong man's spear, and overtaken the speed of his war-horse?

Vengeance to God alone belongs; But, when I think of all my wrongs My blood is liquid flame!

In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

Nothing is more completely the child of art than a garden.

Of all vices, drinking is the most incompatible with greatness.

He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the fruit, He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail in his suit.