Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.