The more perfect a thing is, the more susceptible to good and bad treatment it is.
Art, as far as it is able, follows nature, as a pupil imitates his master; thus your art must be, as it were, God’s grandchild.
To run over better waters the little vessel of my genius now hoists her sails, as she leaves behind her a sea so cruel.
Oh blind, oh ignorant, self-seeking cupidity whcih spurs as so in the short mortal life and steeps as through all eternity.
Not one drop of blood is left inside my veins that does not throb: I recognize signs of the ancient flame.
As, pricked out with less and greater lights, between the poles of the universe, the Milky Way so gleameth white as to set very sages questioning.
The man who lies asleep will never waken fame.
The whole universe is but the footprint of the Divine goodness.
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.
The loser, when a game of dice is done, remains behind reviewing every roll sadly, and sadly wiser, and alone.