So in the Libyan fable it is told That once an eagle, stricken with a dart, Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft: With our own feathers, not by others' hands, Are we now smitten.

Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.

I warn the marauder dragging plunder, chaotic, rich beyond all rights: he'll strike his sails, harried at long last, stunned when the squalls of torment break his spars to bits.

His resolve is not to seem the bravest, but to be.

Everyone, to those weaker than themselves, is kind.

I would rather be ignorant than knowledgeable of evils.

The moving light, rejoicing in its strength, Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way, In golden glory, like some strange new sun.