Ambition has but one reward for all: A little power, a little transient fame; A grave to rest in, and a fading name!

Ambition is but avarice on stilts, and masked.

There are no fields of amaranth on this side of the grave: there are no voices, O Rhodope! that are not soon mute, however tuneful: there is no name, with whatever emphasis of passionate love repeated, of which the echo is not faint at last.

The wise become as the unwise in the enchanted chambers of Power, whose lamps make every face the same colour.

No ashes are lighter than those of incense, and few things burn out sooner.

Men, like nails, lose their usefulness when they lose their direction and begin to bend.