Many a crown shines spotless now that yet was deeply sullied in the winning.

Appearance should never attain reality, And if nature conquers, then must art retire.

A pity about the people! they are brave enough comrades, but they have heads like a soapboiler's.

Revenge is barren of itself: it is the dreadful food it feeds on; its delight is murder, and its end is despair.

Posterity weaves no garlands for imitators.

Opposition always inflames the enthusiast, never converts him.

We, we live! ours are the hours, and the living have their claims.