Maxioms by Sir Walter Scott
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my read more
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
A coward calls himself cautious, a miser thrifty.
A coward calls himself cautious, a miser thrifty.
We do that in our zeal our calmer moment would be afraid to
answer.
We do that in our zeal our calmer moment would be afraid to
answer.
Everything in art is but a copy of nature.
Everything in art is but a copy of nature.
Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven.
Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven.
