The Hand That Hath Made

To Some Kind Of Men Their Graces Serve Them But As Enemies.

O, This Life Is Nobler Than Attending For A Check, Richer Than Doing Nothing For A Robe, Prouder Than Rustling In Unpaid-for Silk: Such Pain The Cap Of Him That Makes Him Fine Yet Keeps His Book Uncrossed.

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

There's A Divinity That Shapes Our Ends, Rough-hew Them How We Will.

Love Is Like A Child, That Longs For Everything It Can Come By