Good Befalls Us While We Sleep, Sometimes.

There Are Two Kinds Of Poets: Those Who Feel And Those Who Express Themselves. The Former Are Happier.

Who Shall Ever Tell How Much An Unmerited Disfavor Crushes A Shy Person? Who Can Ever Depict The Misfortunes Of Timidity?

Stupidity Assumes Two Forms, It Speaks Or Is Silent. Mute Stupidity Is Bearable.

Love Is Perhaps No More Than Gratitude For Pleasure.

Marriage Must Incessantly Contend With A Monster That Devours Everything: Familiarity.