There are but two sorts of government: one where men show their teeth at each other, and one where men show their tongues and lick the feet of the strongest.
Beneath our feet a fairy pathway flows, The grass still glitters in the summer breeze, The dusky wood, and distant copse appear, And that lone stream, upon whose chequerd face We mused, when noon-rays made the pebbles gleam, Is mirrord to the mind: though all around Be rattling hoofs and roaring wheels, the eye Is wandring where the heart delights to dwell.