Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes.

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The Forsyte Saga

Bart: Election next month. Your Labour friends can start lying Michael.
Michael: Do you think they'll get in?
Bart: Not this time, Bonar Law's got it all tied up. Wouldn't be a bad thing if they did: taste of office might help them grow up .... Suppose they did get in? What could they do? Cure unemployment?
Michael: They might, Bart.
Bart: I doubt it, and what else? Would they abolish the cinema? teach English women to cook? make us grow our own food? will they hang all dabblers in poison gas? destroy all bombing aeroplanes and submarines?
Michael: They could try.
Bart: And what about the possesive principle that you disapprove of? Would they abolish that? No, not on your life m'boy. No! All party politics are top dressing. We're ruled by inventors and by human nature.
Michael: Oh-hoo you have got it bad guv'ner.
Bart: But seriously, do you find reality in politics now?
Michael: Oh-hoo, do you find reality in anything now?
Bart: Income Tax, perhaps.
Michael: Such simple faith, it touches me.
Bart: Everything fine and splendid is off: no big schemes; no great principles; no far-sighted views; no great religion; no great art. Just a lot of little men in little hats.

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