It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.

A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.

O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

For how can you compete Being honour bred, with one Who, were it proved he lies, Were neither shamed in his own Nor in his neighbour's eyes?

Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.

Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.