The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning.
Jealousy's eyes are green.
Kings are like stars,-they rise and set, they have The worship of the world, but no repose.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.