A Man Is At His Youngest When

What Keeps The Democracy Alive At All But The Hatred Of Excellence; The Desire Of The Base To See No Head Higher Than Their Own?

Love Is A Boaster At Heart, Who Cannot Hide The Stolen Horse Without Giving A Glimpse Of The Bridle.

All Tragedies Deal With Fated Meetings; How Else Could There Be A Play? Fate Deals Its Stroke; Sorrow Is Purged, Or Turned To Rejoicing; There Is Death, Or Triumph; There Has Been A Meeting, And A Change. No One Will Ever Make A Tragedy - And That Is As Well, For One Could Not Bear It - Whose Grief Is That The Principals Never Met.

One Must Live As If It Would Be Forever, And As If One Might Die Each Moment. Always Both At Once.

It Is Something, I Thought, When A King Can Put A Courtesan To The Blush.