Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
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.
God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.
