"[A ruler is merely] the trustee of the rights of other men and he must always stand in dread of having in some way violated these rights."

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Yea, I have looked, and seen November there; The changeless seal of change it seemed to be, Fair death of things that, living once, were fair; Bright sign of loneliness too great for me, Strange image of the dread eternity, In whose void patience how can these have part, These outstretched feverish hands, this restless heart?

— William Morris