The Smaller It Is The Heart, More

Idleness Is A Mother. She Has A Son, Robbery, And A Daughter, Hunger.

Night And The Day, When United, Bring Forth The Beautiful Light.

I Write With One Hand, But I Fight With Both.

Every Good Quality Runs Into A Defect; Economy Borders On Avarice, The Generous Are Not Far From The Prodigal, The Brave Man Is Close To The Bully; He Who Is Very Pious Is Slightly Sanctimonious; There Are Just As Many Vices To Virtue As There Are Holes In The Mantle Of Diogenes.

In Every Cradle Decked With Rosy Wreath Lurk Germs Of Death.