Rarely they rise by virtue's aid who lie plunged in the depth of helpless poverty.
When the mischief is done the door is shut.
Revenge is sweeter than life itself. So think fools.
The greatest respect is owed to a child.
Many suffer from the incurable disease of writing, and it becomes chronic in their sick minds.
The brief span of our poor unhappy life to its final hour Is hastening on; and while we drink and call for gay wreaths, Perfumes, and young girls, old age creeps upon us, unperceived.