It is not every man that can afford to go to Corinth.
Money amassed either serves us or rules us.
Betray not a secret even though racked by wine or wrath.
The musician who always plays on the same string is laughed at.
I shall strike the stars with my uplifted head.
And Tragedy should blush as much to stoop To the low mimic follies of a farce, As a grave matron would to dance with girls.