The life of the wealthy is one long Sunday.
The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.
You women could make someone fall in love even with a lie.
The stars are scattered all over the sky like shimmering tears, there must be great pain in the eye from which they trickled.
The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.
Supreme power rests in the will of all or of the majority.