When the wine goes in, strange things come out.
Even the weak become strong when they are united.
Did you think the lion was sleeping because he didn't roar?
I feel an army in my fist.
Ever building, building to the clouds, still building higher, and never reflecting that the poor narrow basis cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.
But how is the artist to protect himself against the corruption of the age which besets him on all sides?