God says, “Sweat
For foreheads;” men say, “Crowns:” and so we are crowned;
Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel,
Which snaps with a secret spring.
Elizabeth B. Browning.
If to the city sped—what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined,
To pamper luxury and thin mankind.
Goldsmith (“Deserted Village”).