Joy Surfeited Turns To Sorrow.

Sometimes Blood, For The Sake Of Sparing It, Is Spilled.

For 'tis Impossible Hate To Return With Love.

The Talent Of Making Friends Is Not Equal To The Talent Of Doing Without Them.

There Is A Silence, The Child Of Love, Which Expresses Everything, And Proclaims More Loudly Than The Tongue Is Able To Do; There Are Movements That Are Involuntary Proofs Of What The Soul Feels.

Thou Knowest Not The Endless Artifices Of A Court. Invented Crimes Are Often There Alleged; But Real Ones, And Those Especially, Which May Offend His Pride, Are Oftentimes Not To A King Divulged.