I Am Always Most Religious Upon A

There Is No Traitor Like Him Whose Domestic Treason Plants The Poniard Within The Breast That Trusted To His Truth

Sweet Is Old Wine In Bottles, Ale In Barrels.

I Loved My Country, And I Hated Him.

Such Hath It Been--shall Be--beneath The Sun The Many Still Must Labour For The One.

Italia! O Italia! Thou Who Hast The Fatal Gift Of Beauty.