False fancy brings real misery.
The Moor has done his work, the Moor may go.
The very plants turn with a joyful transport to the light.
The storm is master. Man, as a ball, is tossed twixt winds and billows.
Only the soldier is a free man, because he can look death in the face.
Arrow-swift the present sweepeth, and motionless forever stands the past.