For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

For tis not in mere death that men die most.

The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness.

He said true things, but called them by wrong names.

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.