From a single crime know the nation.

E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain, Oft have I seen the war of winds contend, And prone on earth th' infuriate storm descend, Waste far and wide, and by the roots uptorn, The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne, As light straw and rapid stubble fly In dark'ning whirlwinds round the wintry sky.

There's a snake lurking in the grass.

Each man is led by his own liking.

The hour is ripe, and yonder lies the way.

He is fortunate who had been able to learn the causes of things. -Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas

Want of pluck shows want of blood