The nunneries of silent nooks, the murmured longing of the wood.

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, himself, his hungering neighbor and me.

Truth, after all, wears a different face to everybody, and it would be too tedious to wait till all were agreed.

What men call luck Is the prerogative of valiant souls, The fealty life pays its rightful kings.

My soul is not a palace of the past.

A word once vulgarized can never be rehabilitated.

In the scale of the destinies, brawn will never weigh so mach as brain.