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Pectus enim id est quod disertos facit, et vis mentis; ideoque imperitis quoque, si modo sint aliquo affectu concitati, verba non desunt.
Why, William, on that old gray stones “ Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
• Where are your books ?-that light bequeath'd “ To beings else forlorn and blind! * Up! up! and drink the spirit breath'd - From dead men to their kind,
“ You look round on your mother earth, « As if she for no purpose
you; “ As if you were her first-born birth, “ And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
it cannot choose but see; “ We cannot bid the ear be still ; "Our bodies feel, where'er they be, “ Against, or with our will.
« Nor less I deem that there are powers " Which of theniselves our minds impress; “ That we can feed this mind of ours « In a wise passiveness.