So his life has flowed From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure Alone are mirrored; which, though shapes of ill May hover round its surface, glides in light, And takes no shadow from them.
Act i. Sc. 1.
’T is a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarean juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.
Act i. Sc. 2.
Fill the seats of justice With good men, not so absolute in goodness As to forget what human frailty is.
In ourselves In our own honest hearts and chainless hands Will be our safeguard:
Nevermore Let the great interests of the State depend Upon the thousand chances that may sway A piece of human frailty; swear to me That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves The means of sovereignty.