Art Is Indeed Not The Bread But

We Learn Our Virtues From Our Friends Who Love Us; Our Faults From The Enemy Who Hates Us. We Cannot Easily Discover Our Real Character From A Friend. He Is A Mirror, On Which The Warmth Of Our Breath Impedes The Clearness Of The Reflection.

Nothing Is More Beautiful Than Cheerfulness In An Old Face.

It Is Not Great, But Little Good-haps That Make Up Happiness.

There Are Souls Which Fall From Heaven Like Flowers, But Ere They Bloom Are Crushed Under The Foul Tread Of Some Brutal Hoof.

A Man Never Discloses His Own Character So Clearly As When He Describes Anothers.