He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

My sentence is for open war.

That power Which erring men call Chance.

Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.

Or if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

Neither prosperity nor empire nor heaven can be worth winning at the price of a virulent temper, bloody hands, an anguished spirit, and a vain hatred of the rest of the world.

Ease would recant Vows made in pain, as violent and void.