They Put Arsenic In His Meat And

Lovers Lying Two And Two Ask Not Whom They Sleep Beside, And The Bridegroom All Night Through Never Turns Him To The Bride.

Strapped, Noosed, Nighing His Hour, He Stood And Counted Them And Cursed His Luck; And Then The Clock Collected In The Tower Its Strength, And Struck.

I Find Cambridge An Asylum, In Every Sense Of The Word.

The Thoughts Of Others Were Light And Fleeting, Of Lovers' Meeting Or Luck Or Fame. Mine Were Of Trouble, And Mine Were Steady; So I Was Ready When Trouble Came.

To Be A Textual Critic Requires Aptitude For Thinking And Willingness To Think; And Though It Also Requires Other Things, Those Things Are Supplements And Cannot Be Substitutes. Knowledge Is Good, Method Is Good, But One Thing Beyond All Others Is Necessary; And That Is To Have A Head, Not A Pumpkin, On Your Shoulders And Brains, Not Pudding, In Your Head.