Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

How poor are they that have have not patients.

Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

I was a coward on instinct.