On The Throne, One Has Many Worries;

He Who Has Far To Ride Spares His Horse.

My Death, Taking The Light From My Eyes, Gives Back To The Day The Purity Which They Soiled.

Hippolytus Can Feel, And Feels Nothing For Me!

Vice, Like Virtue, Grows In Small Steps, And No True Innocence Can Ever Fall At Once To Deepest Guilt.

Honor, Without Money, Is A Mere Malady.