My Hands Are Guilty, But My Heart

War Is The Trade Of Kings.

For Your Ignorance Is The Mother Of Your Devotion To Me.

She, Though In Full-blown Flower Of Glorious Beauty, Grows Cold Even In The Summer Of Her Age.

Trust Reposed In Noble Natures Obliges Them The More.

One Of The Greatest, Most Noble, And Most Sublime Poems Which Either This Age Or Nation Has Produced.