Spring Flies, And With It All The

Revenge Is Barren Of Itself: It Is The Dreadful Food It Feeds On; Its Delight Is Murder, And Its End Is Despair.

Cling To Thy Native Land, For It Is The Land Of Thy Fathers?

The Moor Has Done His Work, The Moor May Go.

O The Eye's Light Is A Noble Gift Of Heaven! All Beings Live From Light, Each Fair Created Thing; The Very Plants Turn With A Joyful Transport To The Light.

Peace Is Rarely Denied To The Peaceful.