For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.

Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

A poet is a good citizen turned inside out.

A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.