Strike The Iron Whilst It Is Hot.

How Can I Govern Others, Who Can't Even Govern Myself?

In This Mortal Life, Nothing Is Blessed Throughout.

Such Is The Nature And Make-up Of The French That They Are Only Good At The Start. Then They Are Worse Than Devils, But, Given Time, They're Less Than Women.

How Comes It That You Curse, Frere Jean? It's Only, Said The Monk, In Order To Embellish My Language. They Are The Colors Of Ciceronian Rhetoric.

For God, Nothing Is Impossible. And, If He Wanted, In The Future Women Would Give Birth From Their Ears.