The intoxication of anger, like that of the grape, shows us to others, but hides us from ourselves.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

Death in itself is nothing but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.

By education most have been misled So they believe, because they were bred. The priest continues where the nurse began, And thus the child imposes on the man.

Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.