In General Those Who Nothing Have To

Some Kind Of Pace May Be Got Out Of The Eeriest Jade By The Near Prospect Of Oats; But The Thoroughbred Has The Spur In His Blood.

Keats Longed For Fame, But Longed Above All To Deserve It.

That Love For One, From Which There Doth Not Spring Wide Love For All, Is But A Worthless Thing.

Praise Follows Truth Afar Off, And Only Overtakes Her At The Grave; Plausibility Clings To Her Skirts And Holds Her Back Till Then

The Gift Without The Giver Is Rare.