Alas, how right the ancient saying is: We, who are old, are nothing else but noise And shape. Like mimicries of dreams we go, And have no wits, although we think us wise.
Short is the joy that guilty pleasure brings.
I love the old way best, the simple way of poison, where we too are strong as men.
The wavering mind is but a base possession.
Time will explain it all. He is a talker, and needs no questioning before he speaks.
The worst, the least curable hatred is that which has superseded deep love.