Blind self-love, vanity, lifting aloft her empty head, and indiscretion, prodigal of secrets more transparent than glass, follow close behind.

There is a middle ground in things.

When I struggle to be terse, I end by being obscure.

God made not pleasures for the rich alone.

What exile from his country is able to escape from himself?

The question is yet before the court.

Plant no other tree before the vine.