Our friends, the enemy.
Our century is a brutal thinker.
What divides men is less a difference in ideas than a likeness in pretensions.
Glory is a shroud that posterity often tears from the shoulders of those who wore it when living.
Many have lived on a pedestal who will never have a statue when dead.
Adieu! 'tis love's last greeting, The parting hour is come! And fast thy soul is fleeting To seek its starry home.