Bad literature . . . is a form of treason.

Bad literature . . . is a form of treason.

Thou know'st, great son,
The end of war's uncertain, but this certain,
That, if thou conquer Rome, read more

Thou know'st, great son,
The end of war's uncertain, but this certain,
That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit
Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name
Whose repetition will be dogged with curses,
Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble,
But with his last attempt he wiped it out,
Destroyed his country; and his name remains
To th' ensuing age abhorred,' Speak to me son.
Thou hast affected the fine strains of honor,
To imitate the graces of the gods;
To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' th' air,
And yet to change thy sulphur with a bolt
That should rive an oak.

No wise man ever thought that a traitor should be trusted.
[Lat., Nemo unquam sapiens proditori credendum putavit.]

No wise man ever thought that a traitor should be trusted.
[Lat., Nemo unquam sapiens proditori credendum putavit.]

Treason is not own'd when 'tis descried;
Successful crimes alone are justified.

Treason is not own'd when 'tis descried;
Successful crimes alone are justified.

And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,
And dressed myself in such humility
That I did read more

And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,
And dressed myself in such humility
That I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts,
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths
Even in the presence of the crowned king.

Is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon read more

Is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?

Supposition all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes;
For treason is but trusted like the fox,
read more

Supposition all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes;
For treason is but trusted like the fox,
Who, ne'er so tame, so cherished and locked up,
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.

Is there not some chosen curse, some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, red with uncommon wrath, to blast read more

Is there not some chosen curse, some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man who owes his greatness to his country's ruin!

For while the treason I detest,
The traitor still I love.

For while the treason I detest,
The traitor still I love.