Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
None think the great unhappy, but the great.
When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.
A friend is worth all hazards we can run.
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.