Who then is sane? He who is not a fool.
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
Virtue consists in fleeing vice.
Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque revenit. You can drive nature out with a pitchfork, she will nevertheless come back.
An accomplished man to his fingertips.
I have lived: tomorrow the Father may fill the sky with black clouds or with cloudless sunshine.