They change their sky, not their mind, who cross the sea. A busy idleness possesses us: we seek a happy life, with ships and carriages: the object of our search is present with us.

Let your mind, happily contented with the present, care not what the morrow will bring with it.

Betray not a secret even though racked by wine or wrath.

Even play has ended in fierce strife and anger.

Anger is short-lived madness.

Fiction intended to please, should resemble truth as much as possible.

Who then is sane? He who is not a fool.