A king there was once reigning, Who had a goodly flea, Him loved he without feigning, As his own son were he!

Our hands we open of our own free will, and the good flies, which we can never recall.

Everything perfect in its kind has to transcend its own kind, it must become something different and incomparable. In some notes the nightingale is still a bird; then it rises above its class and seems to suggest to every winged creature what singing is truly like.

To rule is easy, to govern difficult.

Alas! sorrow from happiness is oft evolved.

One alone does not help, but rather he who unites with many at the right moment.

Mediocrity has no greater consolation than in the thought that genius is not immortal.