Where I cannot be moral, my power is gone.

The coward only threatens when he is safe.

Time is my estate: to Time I'm heir.

Every form correctly seen is beautiful

Our destiny often looks like a fruit-tree in winter. Who would think from its pitiable aspect that those rigid boughs, those rough twigs could next spring again be green, bloom, and even bear fruit? Yet we hope it, we know it.

He who moves not forward, goes backward.

If you want a wise answer, ask a reasonable question.