Not at all similar are the race of the immortal gods and the race of men who walk upon the earth.
The generation of mankind is like the generation of leaves. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the living tree burgeons with leaves again in the spring.
Sinks my sad soul with sorrow to the grave.
It is not strength, but art, obtains the prize, And to be swift is less than to be wise.
A decent boldness ever meets with friends.
Marge, when I join an underground cult I expect a little support from my family.