Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.

What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?