It is play and only play that makes man complete.
Revenge is barren of itself: it is the dreadful food it feeds on; its delight is murder, and its end is despair.
Why should I deem myself to be a chisel, when I could be the artist?
The mind is the eyesight of the soul.
One can give advice comfortably from a safe port.
If yon wish to be like the gods on earth, to be free in the realms of the dead, pluck not the fruit from the garden! In appearance it may glisten to the eye; but the perishable pleasure of possession quickly avenges the curse of curiosity.