Much Malice Mingled With A Little Wit

Revenge, Revenge, Timotheus Cries, See The Furies Arise!

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

Youth, Beauty, Graceful Action Seldom Fail: But Common Interest Always Will Prevail; And Pity Never Ceases To Be Shown To Him Who Makes The People's Wrongs His Own.

The First Is The Law, The Last Prerogative.

Farewell, Too Little, And Too Lately Known, Whom I Began To Think And Call My Own.