For somehow this is tyranny's disease, to trust no friends.
There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.
Bronze is the mirror of the form wine, of the heart.
A prosperous fool is a grievous burden.
The future you shall know when it has come before then forget it.
For not many men, the proverb saith, can love a friend whom fortune prospereth unenvying.
The meaning I picked, the one that changed my life Overcome fear, behold wonder.
Few men have the natural strength to honour a friend's success without envy.
Sweet is a grief well ended.
