The smell of profit is clean and sweet, whatever the source.
Here we all live in a state of ambitious poverty.
An incurable itch for scribbling takes possession of many, and grows inveterate in their insane breasts.
Poverty is bitter, but it has no harder pang than that it makes men ridiculous.
One man meets an infamous punishment for that crime which confers a diadem on others.
Dare to do something worthy of transportation and a prison, if you mean to be anybody.
For whoever meditates a crime is guilty of the deed. [Lat., Nam scelus intra se tacitum qui cogitat ullum, Facti crimen habet.]
In their palate alone is their reason of existence. [Lat., In solo vivendi causa palata est.]
To eat at another's table is your ambition's height. [Lat., Bona summa putes, aliena vivere quadra.]
The Sicilian tyrants never devised a greater punishment than envy.
Let me moderate our sorrows. The grief of a man should not exceed proper bounds, but be in proportion to the blow he has received. [Lat., Ponamus nimios gemitus: flagrantior aequo Non debet dolor esse viri, nec vulnere major.]
No nice extreme a true Italian knows; But bid him go to hell, to hell he goes.
Every man's credit is proportioned to the money which he has in his chest. [Lat., Quantum quisque sua nummorum condit in area, Tantum habet et fidei.]
Money lost is bewailed with unfeigned tears. [Lat., Ploratur lacrimis amissa pecunia veris.]
Indignation leads to the making of poetry. [Lat., Facit indignatio versum.]
To keep up as good a cuisine as your father.
He never sought to stem the current. [Of a statesman who accommodates his views to public opinion.]
He who meditates a crime secretly within himself has all the guilt of the act.
Savage bears agree with one another.
Such men as fortune raises from a mean estate to the highest elevation by way of a joke.
The finishing stroke of all sorrow.
Who'd bear to hear the Gracchi chide sedition?
Fond man! though all the heroes of your line Bedeck your halls, and round your galleries shine In proud display; yet take this truth from me-- Virtue alone is true nobility!
All arts his own, the hungry Greekling counts; And bid him mount the skies, the skies he mounts.
The traveler without money will sing before the robber. [Lat., Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator.]
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