Nothing To Build, And All

Every Age Has A Kind Of Universal Genius, Which Inclines Those That Live In It To Some Particular Studies.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

Successful Crimes Alone Are Justified.

Let Fortune Empty Her Whole Quiver On Me, I Have A Soul That, Like An Ample Shield, Can Take In All, And Verge Enough For More; Fate Was Not Mine, Nor Am I Fate's: Souls Know No Conquerors.

Drinking Is The Soldier's Pleasure.