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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 stone "Thus for the length of half a day,
"Why, William, sit you thus alone,
"And dream your time away?
"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,
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
<<The eye 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 themselves our minds impress;
"That we can feed this mind of ours
"In a wise passiveness.