Your fame is as the grass, whose hue comes and goes, and His might withers it by whose power it sprang from the lap of the earth.
He who know most grieves most for wasted time.
Pride, envy, avarice – these are the sparks have set on fire the hearts of all men.
No one thinks of how much blood it costs.
All your renown is like the summer flower that blooms and dies; because the sunny glow which brings it forth, soon slays with parching power.
The customs and fashions of men change like leaves on the bough, some of which go and others come.
The devil is not as black as he is painted.
My course is set for an uncharted sea.
There’s not the least thing can be said or done, but people will talk and find fault.
The man who lies asleep will never waken fame, and his desire and all his life drift past him like a dream, and the traces of his memory fade from time like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream.
I wept not, so to stone within I grew.
Heat cannot be separated from fire, or beauty from The Eternal.
The loser, when a game of dice is done, remains behind reviewing every roll sadly, and sadly wiser, and alone.
Will cannot be quenched against its will.
Three sparks – pride, envy, and avarice – have been kindled in all hearts.
Love kindled by virtue always kindles another, provided that its flame appear outwardly.
He listens well who takes notes.
There is a place in Hell called the Malebolge...
But the stars that marked our starting fall away. We must go deeper into greater pain, for it is not permitted that we stay.
At grief so deep the tongue must wag in vain; the language of our sense and memory lacks the vocabulary of such pain.