Revenge, The Sweetest Morsel To The Mouth

I Envy Thee Not Thy Faith, Which Is Ever In Thy Mouth But Never In Thy Heart Nor In Thy Practice

One Crowded Hour Of Glorious Life Is Worth An Age Without A Name

Profan'd The God-given Strength, And Marr'd The Lofty Line.

The Man Who Is Deserving The Name Is The One Whose Thoughts And Exertions Are For Others Rather Than For Himself.

Breathes There The Man, With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land! Whose Heart Hath Ne'er Within Him Burn'd, As Home His Footsteps He Hath Turn'd From Wandering On A Foreign Strand! If Such There Breathe, Go Mark Him Well; For Him No Minstrel Raptures Swell; High Though His Titles, Proud His Name, Boundless His Wealth As Wish Can Claim; Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.