Spur Not An Unbroken Horse; Put Not

Breathes There The Man With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land.

A Christmas Gambol Oft Could Cheer The Poor Man's Heart Through Half The Year.

'tis An Old Tale, And Often Told; But Did My Fate And Wish Agree, Ne'er Had Been Read, In Story Old, Of Maiden True Betray'd For Gold, That Loved, Or Was Avenged, Like Me!

O, What A Tangled Web We Weave When First We Practise To Deceive!

For He That Does Good, Having The Unlimited Power To Do Evil, Deserves Praise Not Only For The Good Which He Performs, But For The Evil Which He Forbears.