The whole race of scribblers flies from the town and yearns for country life.
A portion of mankind take pride in their vices and pursue their purpose; many more waver between doing what is right and complying with what is wrong.
Busy idleness urges us on.
Let this be your wall of brass, to have nothing on your conscience, no guilt to make you turn pale.
We are just statistics, born to consume resources.
Faults are soon copied.