Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.
[The] public path of life Is dirty.
Friendship's the wine of life.
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
It is great and manly to disdain disguise; it shows our spirit and proves our strength.