ay in words what we can only feel
Though thou lose all thou deemest thy happiness
Thought that the insane were possessed by demons
Time is clever in the healing art
Title must not be a bill of fare
To pray is better than to bathe
To govern the world one must have less need of sleep
To know half is less endurable than to know nothing
To her it was not a belief but a certainty
To the child death is only slumber
To expect gratitude is folly
To the mines meant to be doomed to a slow, torturing death
To whom the emotion of sorrow affords a mournful pleasure
To whom fortune gives once, it gives by bushels
To-morrow could give them nothing better than to-day
To be happy, one must forget what cannot be altered
Tone of patronizing instruction assumed by the better informed
Trifling incident gains importance when undue emphasis is laid
Trouble does not enhance beauty
True host puts an end to the banquet
Trustfulness is so dear, so essential to me
Two griefs always belong to one joy
Unjust to injure and rob the child for the benefit of the man
Until neither knew which was the giver and which the receiver
Unwise to try to make a man happy by force
Use their physical helplessness as a defence
Use words instead of swords, traps instead of lances
Usually found the worst wine in the taverns with showy signs
Vagabond knaves had already been put to the torture
Very hard to imagine nothingness
Virtues are punished in this world
Voice of the senses, which drew them together, will soon be mute
Wait, child! What is life but waiting?
Waiting is the merchant's wisdom
Wakefulness may prolong the little term of life
War is a perversion of nature
We live for life, not for death
We quarrel with no one more readily than with the benefactor
We each and all are waiting
We've talked a good deal of love with our eyes already
Welcome a small evil when it barred the way to a greater one
Were we not one and all born fools
Wet inside, he can bear a great deal of moisture without
What had formerly afforded me pleasure now seemed shallow
What changes so quickly as joy and sorrow
What are we all but puny children?
What father does not find something to admire in his child
Whatever a man would do himself, he thinks othe