A louse in the locks of literature.
Virtue must shape itself in deed.
A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?
Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that fame is half disfame.
The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
What rights are those that dare not resist for them?