Cut Men's Throats With Whisperings.

Ambition, Like A Torrent, Ne'er Looks Back; And Is A Swelling, And The Last Affection A High Mind Can Put Off; Being Both A Rebel Unto The Soul And Reason, And Enforceth All Laws, All Conscience, Treads Upon Religion, And Offereth Violence To Nature's Self.

That Old Bald Cheater, Time.

I See Compassion May Become A Justice, Though It Be A Weakness, I Confess, And Nearer A Vice Than A Virtue.

Forbear, You Things That Stand Upon The Pinnacles Of State, To Boast Your Slippery Height! When You Do Fall, You Dash Yourselves In Pieces, Ne'er To Rise: And He That Lends You Pity, Is Not Wise.

He Was Not Of An Age, But For All Time!