Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.

He sins against this life, who slights the next.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.

All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.

One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.