The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

You Shall More Command With Years Than With Your Weapons.

For Trust Not Him That Hath Once Broken Faith

No Particular Scandal One Can Touch But It Confounds The Breather.

Like A Red Morn That Ever Yet Betokened, Wreck To The Seaman, Tempest To The Field, Sorrow To The Shepherds, Woe Unto The Birds, Gusts And Foul Flaws To Herdmen And To Herds.

I Rather Would Entreat Thy Company; To See The Wonders Of The World Abroad, Than, Living Dully Sluggardized At Home, Wear Out Thy Youth With Shapeless Idleness.