The little done doth vanish to the mind which forward sees how much remains to do.

This is slavery, not to speak one's thought.

Forgive, son; men are men; they needs must err.

'Twas but my tongue, 'twas not my soul that swore.

Let a man accept his destiny, No pity and no tears.

The way of God is complex, he is hard for us to predict. He moves the pieces and they come somehow into a kind of order.

When one with honeyed words but evil mind Persuades the mob, great woes befall the state.