Fortime, Not Corydon, Hath Conquered Thee.

Nothing Could Moderate, In The Bosom Of The Great English Middle Class, Their Passionate, Absorbing, Almost Blood-thirsty Clinging To Life.

The Heart Less Bounding At Emotion New, The Hope, Once Crushed, Less Quick To Spring Again.

And Long We Try In Vain To Speak And Act Our Hidden Self, And What We Say And Do Is Eloquent, Is Well -- But 'tis Not True!

If Paris That Brief Flight Allow, My Humble Tomb Explore! It Bears: Eternity, Be Thou My Refuge! And No More.

It Is Almost Impossible To Exaggerate The Proneness Of The Human Mind To Take Miracles As Evidence, And To Seek For Miracles As Evidence.