But dying is a pleasure / When living is a pain.
To breed up the son to common sense is evermore the parent's least expense.
War is a trade of kings.
Home is the sacred refuge of our life.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.
The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.