Alas! how difficult it is not to betray one's guilt by one's looks.
Women's words are as light as the doomed leaves whirling in autumn, Easily swept by the wind, easily drowned by the wave.
Everyone wishes that the man whom he fears would perish.
That fair face will as years roll on lose its beauty, and old age will bring its wrinkles to the brow.
Excessive love in loathing ever ends.
It is the act of a coward to wish for death.