We are too prone to find fault; let us look for some of the perfections.
There are evil spirits who suddenly fix their abode in man's unguarded breast, causing us to commit devilish deeds, and then, hurrying back to their native hell, leave behind the stings of remorse in the poisoned bosom.
It is play and only play that makes man complete.
Sorrow is brief but joy is endless
O who knows what slumbers in the background of the times?
I follow my heart, for I can trust it.