For Women's Tears Are But The Sweat

Trust Me No Tortures Which The Poets Feign Can Match The Fierce Unutterable Pain He Feels, Who Night And Day Devoid Of Rest Carries His Own Accuser In His Breast.

The Finishing Stroke Of All Sorrow.

The Greatest Respect Is Owed To A Child.

The Skilful Class Of Flatterers Praise The Discourse Of An Ignorant Friend And The Face Of A Deformed One.

No Man Ever Became Very Wicked All At Once.