Not without a shudder may the human hand reach into the mysterious urn of destiny.
Rigor pushed too far is sure to miss its aim, however good, as the bow snaps that is bent too stiffly.
Against stupidity, God Himself fights in vain.
Why should I deem myself to be a chisel, when I could be the artist?
Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death.
Satisfy a few to please many is bad.