As shaking terrors from his blazing hair, a sanguine comet gleams through dusky air.
It is the fortunate who should extol fortune.
Love is when he gives you a piece of your soul, that you never knew was missing.
Virtue's guard is labor; ease, her sleep.
Fortune rarely accompanies anyone to the door.
Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, his locks were grey, yet was his courage green.