Death's dark way Must needs be trodden once, however we pause.
In my integrity I'll wrap me up.
The cook cares not a bit for toil, toil, if the fowl be plump and fat
Deep in the cavern of the infant's breast; the father's nature lurks, and lives anew.
He will always be a slave who does not know how to live upon a little.
The populace may hiss me, but when I go home and think of my money, I applaud myself.