When we are well, we all have good advice for those who are ill.
Whatever one of us blames in another, each one will find in his own heart.
When an author is too meticulous about his style, you may presume that his mind is frivolous and his content flimsy.
Whatever is well said by another, is mine.
When it is wasted in heedless luxury and spent on no good activity, we are forced at last by death’s final constraint to realize that it has passed away before we knew it was passing.