Of all the tyrannies on human kind the worst is that which persecutes the mind.
As poetry is the harmony of words, so music is that of notes.
It is a madness to make fortune the mistress of events, because in herself she is nothing, can rule nothing, but is ruled by prudence.
Griefs assured are felt before they come.
When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
But dying is a pleasure / When living is a pain.