Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.

Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

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

Nature delights in progress; in advance.