O Death the Healer, scorn thou not, I pray, To come to me: of cureless ills thou art The one physician. Pain lays not its touch Upon a corpse.
The laws of a state change with the changing times.
Bronze is the mirror of form, wine of the heart.
For somehow this is tyranny's disease, to trust no friends.
Death is easier than a wretched life; and better never to have born than to live and fare badly.
Number, the most excellent of all inventions.