O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?
Consider the sea's listless chime: Time's self it is, made audible.
Lying in a featherbed will bring you no fame, nor staying beneath the quilt, and he who uses up his life without achieving fame leaves no more vestige of himself on Earth than smoke in the air or foam upon the water.
Mankind is at its best when it is most free.
Infinite goodness has such wide arms.
There, pride, avarice, and envy are the tongues men know and heed, a Babel of depsair