Dear sir, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale, Out of which…

I am a friar of orders grey, And down in the valleys I take my way; I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,— Good store of venison fills my scrip.

Amo, amas, I love a lass, As a cedar tall and slender; Sweet cowslip's grace Is her nom'native case, And she's of the feminine gender.

A glass is good, and a lass is good, And a pipe to smoke in cold weather; The world is good, and the people are good, And we're all good fellows together.

Hamlet most brings home to us at once the sense of the soul's infinity, and the sense of the doom which not only circumscribes that infinity but appears to be its offspring.

You cannot dictate to any man what shall be his morality or his own religion. He must make his own choice. Your attempts to impose total sexual abstinence on him he regards as a meddlesome and impertinent interference with the expression …

And so we shake The snowy flake From cedar and myrtle fair; And the boughs that nod On the hills of God, We raise to his glory there.