Even victors are by victories undone.
Not Heav'n itself upon the past has pow'r; But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.
Men are but children of a larger growth.
Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.
Riches cannot rescue from the grave, which claims alike the monarch and the slave.