It is a strange form of anger, difficult to cure, when two friends turn upon each other in hatred.

Happy the man whose lot it is to know The secrets of the earth. He hastens not To work his fellows hurt by unjust deeds, But with rapt admiration contemplates Immortal Nature's ageless harmony, And how and when the order came to be.

When cheated, wife or husband feels the same.

Happy is it to place a daughter; yet it pains a father's heart when he delivers to another's house a child, the object of his tender care.

Learned we may be with another man's learning: we can only be wise with wisdom of our own: [I hate a sage who is not wise for himself]

My tongue swore, but my mind was still unpledged.

Stronger than lover's love is lover's hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.