Seldom Do People Discern Eloquence Under A

Man, Wretched Man, Whene'er He Stoops To Sin, Feels, With The Act, A Strong Remorse Within.

The Smell Of Money Is Good, Come Whence It May. [alluding To Vespasian's Tax On Ordure.]

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.

Men Who Only Live To Eat.

For Whoever Meditates A Crime Is Guilty Of The Deed. [lat., Nam Scelus Intra Se Tacitum Qui Cogitat Ullum, Facti Crimen Habet.]