When You Are At Rome, Do As

Translating From One Language To Another, Unless It Is From Greek And Latin, The Queens Of All Languages, Is Like Looking At Flemish Tapestries From The Wrong Side, For Although The Figures Are Visible, They Are Covered By Threads That Obscure Them, And Cannot Be Seen With The Smoothness And Color Of The Right Side.

She Wanted, With Her Fickleness, To Make My Destruction Constant; I Want, By Trying To Destroy Myself, To Satisfy Her Desire.

For Historians Ought To Be Precise, Truthful, And Quite Unprejudiced, And Neither Interest Nor Fear, Hatred Nor Affection, Should Cause Them To Swerve From The Path Of Truth, Whose Mother Is History, The Rival Of Time, The Depository Of Great Actions, The Witness Of What Is Past, The Example And Instruction Of The Present, The Monitor Of The Future.

My Heart Is Wax Molded As She Pleases, But Enduring As Marble To Retain.

Thou Art A Cat, And A Rat, And A Coward.