What judgment I had increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose or reject; to run them into verse or to give them the other harmony of prose.
War is the trade of kings.
An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.
Prodigious actions may as well be done, by weaver's issue, as the prince's son.
Honor is but an empty bubble.