What is not in a man cannot come out of him surely.

What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learnt to melt at others' woe.

We frolic while 'tis May.

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest.

Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.