Appetite comes with eating.
Fate leads the willing, and th' unwilling draws.
When I drink, I think; and when I think, I drink.
But where are the snows of last year? That was the greatest concern of Villon, the Parisian poet.
One inch of joy surmounts of grief a span, Because to laugh is proper to the man.
How comes it that you curse, Frere Jean? It's only, said the monk, in order to embellish my language. They are the colors of Ciceronian rhetoric.