Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.

To be ambitious of true honor, of the true glory and perfection of our natures, is the very principle and incentive of virtue.

The glory dies not, and the grief is past.

One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum.

Discretion is being able to raise your eyebrow instead of your voice.

High minds, of native pride and force, Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse; Fear, for their scourge, means villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave!