Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

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

We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love

All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.

That toil of growing up; The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain.

I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.