He who trusts secrets to a servant makes him his master
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
And plenty makes us poor.
Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.
For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.
Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.