Virtue Is The Fount Whence Honour Springs.

All Places Are Alike, And Every Earth Is Fit For Burial.

Is It Not Passing Brave To Be A King And Ride In Triumph Through Persepolis?

Till Swollen With Cunning, Of A Self-conceit, His Waxen Wings Did Mount Above His Reach, And, Melting, Heavens Conspir'd His Overthrow.

Where Both Deliberate, The Love Is Slight: Who Ever Lov'd, That Lov'd Not At First Sight?

The Stars Move Still, Time Runs, The Clock Will Strike