It is criminal to steal a purse, daring to steal a fortune, a mark of greatness to steal a crown. The blame diminishes as the guilt increases.
What reason, like the careful ant, draws laboriously together, the wind of accident sometimes collects in a moment.
Time flies on restless pinions - constant never.
Forgiveness is the finding again of a lost possession.
Many a crown shines spotless now that yet was deeply sullied in the winning.
Why should I deem myself to be a chisel, when I could be the artist?