Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.