Invention depends altogether upon execution or organization; as that is right or wrong so is the invention perfect or imperfect.
O white-robed Angel, guide my timorous hand to write as on a lofty rock with iron pen the words of truth, that all who pass may read.
When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
Gratitude is heaven itself; there could be no heaven without gratitude.
He who shall teach the child to doubtThe rotting grave shall ne’er get out.
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, But the Ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm.
My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O! my soul is white; White as an angel is the English child, But I am black as if bereaved of light.
The world of imagination is the world of eternity. It is the divine bosom into which we shall all go after death of the vegetative body.
The fields from Islington to Marybone, To Primrose Hill and Saint John’s Wood, Were builded over with pillars of gold; And there Jerusalem’s pillars stood.
All wholesome food is caught without a net or trap.
Children of the future age Reading this indignant page Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime.
Thou art a man God is no more Thy own humanity Learn to adore.
And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
Time is the mercy of Eternity; without Time’s swiftness Which is the swiftest of all things, all were eternal torment.
To Chloe’s breast young Cupid slily stole, But he crept in at Myra’s pocket-hole.
How can a bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing?
Without contraries there is no progression.
When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring?