For Monarchs Seldom Sigh In Vain.

Wounds Sustained For The Sake Of Conscience Carry Their Own Balsam With The Blow.

My Hope, My Heaven, My Trust Must Be, My Gentle Guide, In Following Thee.

Land Of My Sires! What Mortal Hand Can E'er Untie The Filial Band That Knits Me To Thy Rugged Strand!

The Schoolmaster Is Termed, Classically, Ludi Magister, Because He Deprives Boys Of Their Play.

Good Even, Good Fair Moon, Good Even To Thee. I Prithee, Dear Moon, Now Show To Me The Form And The Features, The Speech And Degree, Of The Man That True Lover Of Mine Shall Be.