And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woe a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame.

For freedom's battle, once begun, Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, Though baffled oft, is ever won.

The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.

Shrine of the mighty! can it be That this is all remains of thee?

For children are innocent and love justice, while most of us are wicked and naturally prefer mercy.

Tell me you've never thought about killing your own kid. For instance, taking him out hunting in the woods and only one of you comes back, namely you.

I will only make pictures that I won't be ashamed to have my children see.