True self-love and social are the same.
Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.