The moving light, rejoicing in its strength, Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way, In golden glory, like some strange new sun.

In every tyrant's heart there springs in the end this poison, that he cannot trust a friend.

I know how men in exile feed on dreams.

The best by far is to marry in one's own rank.

If a man suffers ill, let it be without shame; for this is the only profit when we are dead. You will never say a good word about deeds that are evil and disgraceful.

Everyone, to those weaker than themselves, is kind.

To mourn and bewail your ill-fortune, when you will gain a tear from those who listen, this is worth the trouble.