Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.

[The] public path of life Is dirty.

The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.

Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.

Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.