God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
Every one soon or late comes round by Rome.
God is the perfect poet.
