The life of the wealthy is one long Sunday.
The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.
The strides of humanity are slow, they can only be counted in centuries.
And for tired eyes every light is too bright, and for tired lips every breath too heavy, and for tired ears every word too much.
Government must be a transparent garment which tightly clings to the people's body.
The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.