Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.

We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul

The last great Englishman is low.

The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.

But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills, And beat me down and marr’d and wasted me, And tho’ they could not end me, left me maim’d To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. - Tithonus

A louse in the locks of literature.