The Farce Is Finished. I Go To

For God, Nothing Is Impossible. And, If He Wanted, In The Future Women Would Give Birth From Their Ears.

Everything Comes In Time To Those Who Can Wait.

I Won't Undertake War Until I Have Tried All The Arts And Means Of Peace.

But Where Are The Snows Of Last Year? That Was The Greatest Concern Of Villon, The Parisian Poet.

The Lord Forbid That I Should Be Out Of Debt, As If Indeed I Could Not Be Trusted.