Prostrate the beauteous ruin lies; and all That shared its shelter, perish in its fall.

Oh, my country! how I leave my country!

The press is like the air, a chartered libertine.

Unlimited power is apt to corrupt the minds of those who possess it; and this I know, my lords, that where laws end, tyranny begins

A long train of these practices has at length unwillingly convinced me that there is something behind the throne greater than the King himself

Necessity is the argument of tyrants, it is the creed of slaves.