It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember

Heaven blazing into the head: Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages And all the drop-scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

I am of a healthy long lived race, and our minds improve with age.

On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!

I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.

How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?