There is something in omens.
Whilst you are prosperous you can number many friends; but when the storm comes you are left alone.
Eurydice, dying now a second time, uttered no complaint against her husband. What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?
What is allowed us is disagreeable, what is denied us causes us intense desire.
Either attempt it not, or succeed.
Often the prickly thorn produces tender roses.