A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.

The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.