Reading Chaucer is like brushing through the dewy grass at sunrise.
Sorrow is the great idealizer.
In the scale of the destinies, brawn will never weigh so mach as brain.
Who is it needs such flawless shafts as fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, or hits the white so surely?
Freedom is the only law which genius knows.
May is a pious fraud of the almanac.