This should have been a noble creature: he/ Hath all the energy which would have made/ A goodly frame of glorious elements,/ Had they been wisely min… - Lord Byron

Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers

And thus they plod in sluggish misery,
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,
Bequeathing their hereditary rage
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage
War for their chains, and rather than be free,
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage
Within the same arena where they see
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.

Life 's a poor player,' — then 'play out the play,
Ye villains!' above all keep a sharp eye
Much less on what you do than what you say:
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be
Not what you seem, but always what you see.