"The good of other times let people state; I think it lucky I was born so late." — Ovid

Alas! how difficult it is not to betray one's guilt by one's looks.

Every lover is a soldier.

No man can purchase his virtue too dear, for it is the only thing whose value must ever increase with the price it has cost us. Our integrity is never worth so much as when we have parted with our all to keep it.

Neither can the wave that has passed by be recalled, nor the hour which has passed return again.