None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.

Armenian is the language to speak with God.

Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?

What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?

I have seen a thousand graves opened, and always perceived that whatever was gone, the teeth and hair remained of those who had died with them. Is not this odd? They go the very first things in youth and yet last the longest in the dust.

I learned to love despair.

This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.