The Fates but only spin the coarser clue; The finest of the wool is left for you.
I feel my sinews slackened with the fright, and a cold sweat trills down all over my limbs, as if I were dissolving into water.
Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle.
For mysterious things of faith, rely on the proponent, Heaven's authority.
The brave man seeks not popular applause, Nor, overpower'd with arms, deserts his cause; Unsham'd, though foil'd, he does the best he can, Force is of brutes, but honor is of man.
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