PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA

'Tis not where we lie, but whence we fell; the loss of heaven's the greatest pain in hell.

A good action is never lost; it is a treasure laid up and guarded for the doer's need.

These flowers, which were splendid and sprightly, waking in the dawn of the morning, in the evening will be a pitiful frivolity, sleeping in the cold night's arms.

When love is not madness, it is not love.

For even in dreams a good deed is not lost.

One may know how to gain a victory, and know not how to use it.

Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises.

What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough; for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams.

For all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams.

But whether it be dream or truth, to do well is what matters. If it be truth, for truth's sake. If not, then to gain friends for the time when we awaken.

What law, what reason can deny that gift so sweet, so natural that God has given a stream, a fish, a beast, a bird?

Power, like lightening, injures before its warning.

For man's greatest crime is to have been born.

The heart is an astrologer that always divines the truth.

To the King, one must give his possessions and his life; but honour is a possession of soul, and the soul is only God's.

All life is a dream, and all dreams are dreams.

Our treasures trifles seem, and all our life is dreaming, and the dreams themselves are dreams.

A woman needs a stronger head than her own for counsel - she should marry.

They say that the best counsel is that of woman.

Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul Yet uncorrected of the higher will, So that men sometimes in their dreams confess An unsuspected, or forgotten, self; -Since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, are akin In missing each that salutory rein Of reason, and the grinding will of man.

Even in dreams doing good is not wasted.

Restless sunflower; cease to move.

And yet, and yet, in these our ghostly lives, Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake, How if our waking life, like that of sleep, Be all a dream in that eternal life To which we wake not till we sleep in death