Generations of men are like the leaves. In winter, winds blow them down to earth, but then, when spring season comes again, the budding wood grows more. And so with men: one generation grows, another dies away.

I don't know how much longer I can complain.

By their own follies they perished, the fools.

In youth and beauty, wisdom is but rare!

Men in their generations are like the leaves of the trees. The wind blows and one year's leaves are scattered on the ground; but the trees burst into bud and put on fresh ones when the spring comes round.

It is not good to have a rule of many.

I've gone back in time to when dinosaurs weren't just confined to zoos.