The moving light, rejoicing in its strength, Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way, In golden glory, like some strange new sun.
Everyone is ready to speak ill of a stranger.
Memory is the mother of all wisdom.
It is a profitable thing, if one is wise, to seem foolish.
I willingly speak to those who know, but for those who do not know I forget.
Of all the gods only death does not desire gifts.