Oh, yes, thy sins Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell, To light thee thither.
Man may his fate foresee, but not prevent. 'Tis better to be fortunate than wise.
Lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle.
I do love these ancient ruins. We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history.
Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.
A politician is the devil's quilted anvil; He fashions all sins on him, and the blows are never heard.