It is a wise father that knows his own child.

And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

O excellent! I love long life better than figs.

I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.

The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.