Fill high the cup with Samian wine!

Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.

What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour: For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs.

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.