O momentary grace of mortal men,
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
Who builds his hopes in air of your good looks,
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast,
Ready, with every nod, to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

“Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upo…”

“Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.”

“I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would …”

“This world's a city full of straying streets, and death's the market-place wher…”