There is no sickness worse for me than words that to be kind must lie.
The power that holds the sky's majesty wins our worship.
In every tyrant's heart there springs in the end this poison, that he cannot trust a friend.
Destiny waits alike for the free man as well as for him enslaved by another's might.
The evils of mortals are manifold; nowhere is trouble of the same wing seen.
Fear hurries on my tongue through want of courage.