Suppressed grief suffocates, it rages within the breast, and is forced to multiply its strength.
The good of other times let people state; I think it lucky I was born so late.
Sleep ... peace of the soul, who puttest care to flight.
Often the prickly thorn produces tender roses.
Love, and a cough, are not concealed.
It warms the blood, adds luster to the eyes, and wine and love have ever been allies.