On Wrongs Swift Vengeance Waits.

Pride Is Still Aiming At The Best Houses: Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods. Aspiring To Be Gods, If Angels Fell; Aspiring To Be Angels Men Rebel.

There Still Remains To Mortify A Wit The Many-headed Monster Of The Pit.

The Enormous Faith Of Many Made For One.

In A Sadly Pleasing Strain, Let The Warbling Lute Complain.

When We Are Young, We Are Slavishly Employed In Procuring Something Whereby We May Live Comfortably When We Grow Old; And When We Are Old, We Perceive It Is Too Late To Live As We Proposed.