Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.

A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

We murder to dissect.