Our misfortune

All cities, all states, all reigns are mortal; everything, either by its nature or by accident, comes to an end. And so a citizen who finds himself living in the final stages of his country’s existence should not feel as sorry for it as he should feel for himself. What happened to his country was inevitable; but to be born at a time when such a disaster came to pass was his own particular misfortune.

Francesco Gucciardini

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed . . .