Each natural agent works but to this end,- To render that it works on like itself.

Be free all worthy spirits, and stretch yourselves, for greatness and for height.

Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies. The gods on murtherers fix revengeful eyes.

Virtue is not malicious; wrong done her Is righted even when men grant they err.

And for the authentical truth of either person or actions, who (worth the respecting) will expect it in a poem, whose subject is not truth, but things like truth? Poor envious souls they are that cavil at truth's want in these natural fictions; material instruction, elegant and sententious excitation to virtue, and deflection from her contrary, being the soul, limbs, and limits of an authentical tragedy.

And let a scholar all earth's volumes carry, he will be but a walking dictionary: a mere articulate clock.

There is a nick in Fortune's restless wheel For each man's good.