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Hurt a fly! He would not for the world: he's pitiful to flies even. Sing, says he, and tease me still, if that's your way, poor insect.
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O rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,-- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
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A woman's always younger than a man of equal years.
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Best be yourself, imperial, plain and true
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Let no one till his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
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