Grief Is Itself A Medicine.

If My Resolution To Be A Great Man Was Half So Strong As It Is To Despise The Shame Of Being A Little One.

The Things That Mount The Rostrum With A Skip, And Then Skip Down Again, Pronounce A Text, Cry Hem; And Reading What They Never Wrote Just Fifteen Minutes, Huddle Up Their Work, And With A Well-bred Whisper Close The Scene!

For 'tis A Truth Well Known To Most, That Whatsoever Thing Is Lost, We Seek It, Ere It Comes To Light, In Every Cranny But The Right.

And, Of All Lies (be That One Poet's Boast) / The Lie That Flatters I Abhor The Most.

When One That Holds Communion With The Skies Has Fill'd His Urn Where These Pure Waters Rise, And Once More Mingles With Us Meaner Things, 'tis E'en As If An Angel Shook His Wings.