Let us not judge life by its number of breaths, but by the number of…

Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp, Let's grimly kiss with bated breath; As quietly and solemnly As Life when it is kissing Death.

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent; Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze.

The collier's wife had four tall sons Brought from the pit's mouth dead, And crushed from foot to head

They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, They cried so loud I could not sleep: For fifty thousand shillings down I would not sail again with sheep.

Autumn grows old: he, like some simple one, In Summer's castaway is strangely clad

From my own kind I only learn How foolish comfort is