Why should I be ashamed to describe what nature was not ashamed to create?

Desire is poison at lunch and wormwood at dinner; your bed is a stone, friendship is hateful and your fancy is always fixed on one thing.

Poetry is a whim of Nature in her lighter moods; it requires nothing but its own madness and, lacking that, it becomes a soundless cymbal, a belfry without a bell.

If you want to annoy your neighbors, tell the truth about them.

Life is a toy made of glass; it appears to be of inestimable price, but in reality it is very cheap.

Angry men are blind and foolish, for reason at such time takes flight and, in her absence; wrath plunders all the riches of the intellect, while the judgment remains the prisoner of its own pride.

Even when I'm railed at, I get my quota of renown.