The Empty Vessel Makes The Loudest Sound.

Ah Me, How Weak A Thing The Heart Of Woman Is!

I Love A Ballad In Print O' Life, For Then We Are Sure They Are True.

Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though You Can Fret Me, You Cannot Play Upon Me.

Wisdom And Goodness To The Vile Seem Vile; Filths Savour But Themselves.

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.