Because ye take pleasure in calling by false names things whose nature is quite incongruous thereto⁠—by names which are easily proved false by the very effects of the things themselves; even so it is; these riches, that power, this dignity, are none of them rightly so called. Finally, we may draw the same conclusion concerning the whole sphere of Fortune, within which there is plainly nothing to be truly desired, nothing of intrinsic excellence; for she neither always joins herself to the good, nor does she make good men of those to whom she is united.”

Nero’s Infamy

We know what mischief dire he wrought⁠— Rome fired, the Fathers slain⁠— Whose hand with brother’s slaughter wet A mother’s blood did stain.

No pitying tear his cheek bedewed, As on the corse he gazed; That mother’s beauty, once so fair, A critic’s voice appraised.