To the child death is only slumber
     To expect gratitude is folly
     To the mines meant to be doomed to a slow, torturing death
     To whom the emotion of sorrow affords a mournful pleasure
     To whom fortune gives once, it gives by bushels
     To-morrow could give them nothing better than to-day
     To be happy, one must forget what cannot be altered
     Tone of patronizing instruction assumed by the better informed
     Trifling incident gains importance when undue emphasis is laid
     Trouble does not enhance beauty
     True host puts an end to the banquet
     Trustfulness is so dear, so essential to me
     Two griefs always belong to one joy
     Unjust to injure and rob the child for the benefit of the man
     Until neither knew which was the giver and which the receiver
     Unwise to try to make a man happy by force
     Use their physical helplessness as a defence
     Use words instead of swords, traps instead of lances
     Usually found the worst wine in the taverns with showy signs
     Vagabond knaves had already been put to the torture
     Very hard to imagine nothingness
     Virtues are punished in this world
     Voice of the senses, which drew them together, will soon be mute
     Wait, child!  What is life but waiting? 
     Waiting is the merchant’s wisdom
     Wakefulness may prolong the little term of life
     War is a perversion of nature
     We live for life, not for death
     We quarrel with no one more readily than with the benefactor
     We each and all are waiting
     We’ve talked a good deal of love with our eyes already
     Welcome a small evil when it barred the way to a greater one
     Were we not one and all born fools
     Wet inside, he can bear a great deal of moisture without
     What had formerly afforded me pleasure now seemed shallow
     What changes so quickly as joy and sorrow
     What are we all but puny children? 
     What father does not find something to admire in his child
     Whatever a man would do himself, he thinks others are capable of
     When love has once taken firm hold of a man in riper years
     When a friend refuses to share in joys
     When men-children deem maids to be weak and unfit for true sport
     When hate and revenge speak, gratitude shrinks timidly
     When you want to strike me again, mother, please take off
     Whether the form of our benevolence does more good or mischief
     Whether man were the best or the worst of created beings
     Whether the historical romance is ever justifiable
     Who watches for his neighbour’s faults has a hundred sharp eyes
     Who can point out the road that another will take
     Who can be freer than he who needs nothing
     Who only puts on his armor when he is threatened
     Who does not struggle ward, falls back