It Is The Glory And Good Of

The Sad Rhyme Of The Men Who Proudly Clung To Their First Fault, And Withered In Their Pride.

If You Get Simple Beauty And Naught Else, You Get About The Best Thing God Invents.

Sappho Survives, Because We Sing Her Songs; And Eschylus, Because We Read His Plays!

I Want To Know A Butcher Paints, A Baker Rhymes For His Pursuit, Candlestick-maker Much Acquaints His Soul With Song, Or, Haply Mute, Blows Out His Brains Upon The Flute.

A Man In Armour Is His Armour's Slave.