Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace!

I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.

Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger.

He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.

Adversity is the first path to truth.

Well, well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering winds shift, shift our sails.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?