It is not great, but little good-haps that make up happiness.
It is easier and handier for men to flatter than to praise.
I have made as much out of myself as could be made of the stuff, and no man should require more.
Joys are our wings, sorrows our spurs.
Because the heart beats under a covering of hair, of fur, feathers, or wings, it is, for that reason, to be of no account?
The heart needs not for its heaven much space, nor many stars therein, if only the star of love has arisen.