A king there was once reigning, Who had a goodly flea, Him loved he without feigning, As his own son were he!
Our senses don't deceive us: our judgment does
In politics people throw themselves, as on a sickbed, from one side to the other in the belief they will lie more comfortably.
But when all is said, the greatest art is to limit and isolate oneself.
Superstition is the poetry of life.
Unrest and uncertainty are our lot.