Drop the question of what tomorrow may bring, and count as profit every day that Fate allows you.

A good resolve will make any port.

Fools through false shame, conceal their open wounds.

Rains driven by storms fall not perpetually on the land already sodden, neither do varying gales for ever disturb the Caspian sea.

Surely oak and threefold brass surrounded his heart who first trusted a frail vessel to the merciless ocean.

Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.

It is of no consequence of what parents a man is born, as long as he be a man of merit.