No little lily-handed Baronet he,/ A great broad-shouldered genial Englishman,/ A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep,/ A raiser of huge melons and of pine,/ A patron of some thirty charities.

Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat

Revolts, republics, revolutions, most/ No graver than a schoolboy's barring out.

Thus, it comes to pass, that a certain room in a certain old hall, where a certain bad lord, baronet, knight, or gentleman, shot himself, has certain planks in the floor from which the blood will not be taken out. You may scrape and scrape, as the present owner has done, or plane and plane, as his father did, or scrub and scrub, as his grandfather did, or burn and burn with strong acids, as his great-grandfather did, but, there the blood will still be - no redder and no paler - no more and no less - always just the same.

The shell must break before the bird can fly.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought/ With human hands the creed of creeds/ In loveliness of perfect deeds,/ More strong than all poetic thought.