Ah'. why will kings forget that they are men ?
And men that they are brethren ? Why delight
In human sacrifice ? Why burst the ties
Of nature, that should knit our souls together,
In one soft bond of amity and love ?
Yet still they breed destruction, still go on
Inhumanly ingenious to find out
New pains for life, new terrors for the grave.
Artificers of death ! Still monarchs dream
Of universal empire growing up
From universal ruin. Blast their design
Great God of Hosts ! nor let thy creatures fall
Unpitied victims at ambition's shrine!
PoRTEUS.
No one perhaps, even in the happiest marriage with an object really beloved, ever found all the qualities he expected to possess; but in far too many cases, he has practised a much higher degree of mental deception, and has erected his airy castle of felicity upon some rainbow, which owed its existence only the peculiar state of the atmosphere.
Walter Scott.
He was a man
Versed in the world as pilot in his compass. The needle pointed ever to that interest Which was his load star; and he spread his sails With vantage to the gale of others' passion.
