There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.
So in the Libyan fable it is told That once an eagle, stricken with a dart, Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft: With our own feathers, not by others' hands, Are we now smitten.
It is best for the wise man not to seem wise.
What is there more kindly than the feeling between host and guest?
The tongue of slander is too prompt with wanton malice to wound the stranger.
In war the first casualty is the truth.