The Arrows Are From Her Dowry.

The Only Path To A Tranquil Life Is Through Virtue. [lat., Semita Certe Tranquillae Per Virtutem Patet Unica Vitae.]

Autumn Is The Harvest Of Greedy Death.

No Nice Extreme A True Italian Knows; But Bid Him Go To Hell, To Hell He Goes.

Nature, In Giving Tears To Man, Confessed That He Had A Tender Heart; This Is Our Noblest Quality.

Rarely They Rise By Virtue's Aid Who Lie Plunged In The Depth Of Helpless Poverty.