"What remains?" cried Ivanhoe; "Glory, maiden, glory! which gilds our sepulchre and embalms our name." — Walter Scott

There is yet spirit in him, were it well directed- but, like the Greek fire, it burns whatever approaches it.

Thou and I are but the blind instruments of some irresistible fatality, that hurries us along, like goodly vessels driving before the storm, which are dashed against each other, and so perish.

You have power, rank, command, influence; we have wealth, the source both of our strength and weakness; the value of these toys, ten times multiplied, would not influence half so much as your slightest wish.