We hate merit while it is with us; when taken away from our gaze, we long for it jealously.
In the word of no master am I bound to believe.
If you drive nature out with a pitchfork, she will soon find a way back.
What prevents a man's speaking good sense with a smile on his face?
Seest thou how pale the sated guest rises from supper, where the appetite is puzzled with varieties? The body, too, burdened with I yesterday's excess, weighs down the soul, and fixes to the earth this particle of the divine essence.
Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque revenit. You can drive nature out with a pitchfork, she will nevertheless come back.