Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

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

Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?