In youth the panting slave pursues the fair evasive dame. Then, caught in colder fetters, woos wealth, office, or a name. Till, old, dishonoured, sick, downcast and failing in his wits, in virtue's narrow cell at last the withered bondsman sits. That man alone his fate fulfills. For he alone, for he alone is free who chooses what to will, and wills his choice as destiny. No eye his future can foretell, no law his past explain, whom neither passion may compel, nor reason can restrain. Well?