The luxury of doing good surpasses every other personal enjoyment.
Envy's a sharper spur than pay: No author ever spar'd a brother; Wits are gamecocks to one another.
No retreat. No retreat. They must conquer or die who've no retreat.
How, like a moth, the simple maid Still plays around the flame!
The sun was set; the night came on apace, And falling dews bewet around the place; The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings, And the hoarse owl his woeful dirges sings.
What frenzy dictates, jealousy believes