'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more … - Lord Byron

Love, fame, ambition, avarice — ’tis the same,
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — For all are meteors with a different name,
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.

Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?

For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new.

what’s travel,
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?