O accursed hunger of gold, to what dost thou not compel human hearts!
From Virgil
Fury itself supplies arms.
They can because they think they can.
Each of us bears his own Hell.
Better times perhaps await us who are now wretched.
Every man makes a god of his own desire.
Every sound alarms.
What region of the earth is not full of our calamities?
If ye despise the human race, and mortal arms, yet remember that there is a God who is mindful of right and wrong.
Who asks whether the enemy was defeated by strategy or valor?
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