What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

Man maketh a death which Nature never made.

O let me be undone the common way, And have the common comfort to be pity'd, And not be ruin'd in the mask of bliss, And so be envy'd, and be wretched too!

But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.

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

And friend received with thumps upon the back.