Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506447" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Epistle to J. Lapraik (excerpt)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am nae poet, in a sense, <br> But just a rhymer like by chance, <br> An' hae to learning nae pretence; <br> Yet what the matter? <br> Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, <br> I jingle at her. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Your critic-folk may cock their nose, <br> And say, &quot;How can you e'er propose, <br> You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, <br> To mak a sang?&quot; <br> But, by your leave, my learned foes, <br> Ye're maybe wrang. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> What's a' your jargon o' your schools, <br> Your Latin names for horns an' stools? <br> If honest nature made you fools, <br> What sairs your grammars? <br> Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, <br> Or knappin-hammers. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> A set o' dull, conceited hashes <br> Confuse their brains in college classes! <br> They gang in stirks and come out asses, <br> Plain truth to speak; <br> An' syne they think to climb Parnassus <br> By dint o' Greek! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, <br> That's a' the learnin' I desire; <br> Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire <br> At pleugh or cart, <br> My Muse, though hamely in attire, <br> May touch the heart....</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Burns">Robert Burns</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506447" data-title="Epistle to J. Lapraik (excerpt) de Robert Burns" data-description="I am nae poet, in a sense, 
 But just a rhymer like by chance, 
 An' hae to learning nae pretence; 
 Yet what the matter? 
 Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 
 I jingle at her. 

 Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
 And say, &quot;How can yo..."></div>
</div>
</div>