Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be
Keen appetite And quick digestion wait on you and yours.
All objects lose by too familiar a view.
It is a madness to make fortune the mistress of events, because in herself she is nothing, but is ruled by prudence.
War is the trade of Kings.
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure
When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.
It is madness to make fortune the mistress of events, because by herself she is nothing and is ruled by prudence.
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