Nothing In The World Is So Incontinent

That Is The Gods' Work, Spinning Threads Of Death Through The Lives Of Mortal Men, An All To Make A Song For Those To Come.

There Is Nothing More Dread And More Shameless Than A Woman Who Plans Such Deeds In Her Heart As The Foul Deed Which She Plotted When She Contrived Her Husband's Murder.

I Only Hope Those Rumors I Hear About What Goes On In Prison Are Greatly Exaggerated.

Like Leaves On Trees The Race Of Man Is Found,- Now Green In Youth, Now Withering On The Ground; Another Race The Following Spring Supplies: They Fall Successive, And Successive Rise.

Thou Wilt Lament Hereafter, When The Evil Shall Be Done And Shall Admit No Cure.