We are never like angels till our passion dies.

But whither am I strayed? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built; Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt Of Eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain.

The man who first abused his fellows with swear-words instead of bashing their brains out with a club should be counted among those who laid the foundations of civilization.

Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few, but such as cannot write, translate.

You prove but too clearly that seeking to know Is too frequently learning to doubt.

Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.

We are never like angels till our passion dies.