To Good And True Love, Fear Is

But Where Are The Snows Of Last Year? That Was The Greatest Concern Of Villon, The Parisian Poet.

We Always Long For The Forbidden Things, And Desire What Is Denied Us.

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.

All's Well In The End, If You've Only The Patience To Wait.

Always Open All Gates And Roads To Your Enemies, And Rather Make For Them A Bridge Of Silver, To Get Rid Of Them. [fr., Ouvrez Toujours A Vos Ennemis Toutes Les Portes Et Chemin, Et Plutot Leur Faites Un Pont D'argent, Afin De Les Renvoyer.]