Fly, Dotard, Fly! With Thy Wise Dreams

At Length Corruption, Like A General Flood (so Long By Watchful Ministers Withstood), Shall Deluge All; And Avarice, Creeping On, Spread Like A Low-born Mist, And Blot The Sun.

Fame, Wealth, And Honour! What Are You To Love?

A God Without Dominion, Providence, And Final Causes, Is Nothing Else But Fate And Nature.

There Is A Certain Majesty In Simplicity Which Is Far Above All The Quaintness Of Wit.

The Enormous Faith Of Many Made For One.