'Tis said fantastic ocean doth unfold the likeness of whate'er on land is seen. Wordsworth.
'Tis said that virtue dwells sublime / On 45 rugged cliffs, full hard to climb; / ... But mortal ne'er her form may see, / Unless his restless energy / Breaks forth in sweat that gains the goal, / The perfect manhood of the soul. Simonides.
'Tis strange; / And oftentimes to win us to our harm, / The instruments of darkness tell us truths; / Win us with honest trifles, to betray 's, / In deepest consequence. Macb., i. 3.
'Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead, / To know them still alive, / But sweeter if we earn their bread, / And in us they survive. Thomson.
'Tis the curse of service; preferment goes by letter and affection, not by the old gradation where each second stood heir to the first. Othello, i. 1.
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; / 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, / And intimates eternity to man. Addison.
'Tis the fate of the noblest soul to sigh vainly 50 for a reflection of itself. Goethe.
'Tis the fine souls who serve us, and not what is called fine society. Emerson.
'Tis the fulness of man that runs over into objects, and makes his Bibles and Shakespeares and Homers so great. Emerson.
'Tis the good reader that makes the good book; a good head cannot read amiss; in every book he finds passages which seem confidences, or asides, hidden from all else and unmistakably meant for his ear. Emerson.