Half Of Today Is Better Than All

We Ought Never To Scoff At The Wretched, For Who Can Be Sure Of Continued Happiness?

Le Geai Pare Des Plumes Du Paon. A Bluejay In Peacock Feathers.

Everyone Calls Himself A Friend, But Only A Fool Relies On It; Nothing Is Commoner Than The Name, Nothing Rarer Than The Thing.

No Path Of Flowers Leads To Glory.

The Fastidious Are Unfortunate: Nothing Can Satisfy Them. [lat., Les Delicats Sont Malheureux, Rien Ne Saurait Les Satisfaire.]