We Men Are Wretched Things.

Jove Lifts The Golden Balances That Show The Fates Of Mortal Men, And Things Below.

Behold, On Wrong Swift Vengeance Waits; And Art Subdues The Strong.

In Every Sorrowing Soul I Pour'd Delight, And Poverty Stood Smiling In My Sight.

And Empty Words Are Evil.

A Generous Friendship No Cold Medium Knows, Burns With One Love, With One Resentment Glows; One Should Our Interests And Our Passions Be, My Friend Must Hate The Man That Injures Me.