When the roses are gone, nothing is left but the thorn.

The result justifies the deed.

In an easy matter. Anybody can be eloquent.

I am dragged along by a strange new force. Desire and reason are pulling in different directions. I see the right way and approve it, but follow the wrong.

I grabbed a pile of dust, and holding it up, foolishly asked for as many birthdays as the grains of dust, I forgot to ask that they be years of youth.

He who would not be idle, let him fall in love.

Love is an affair of credulity.