This Is My Wish, This Is My

Trust Me No Tortures Which The Poets Feign Can Match The Fierce Unutterable Pain He Feels, Who Night And Day Devoid Of Rest Carries His Own Accuser In His Breast.

Give Them Bread And Circuses And They Will Never Revolt

Remorse Is The Fruit Of Crime.

Nature, In Giving Tears To Man, Confessed That He Had A Tender Heart; This Is Our Noblest Quality.

Nature Confesses That She Has Bestowed On The Human Race Hearts Of Softest Mould, In That She Has Given Us Tears.