Busy idleness urges us on.
All men do not, in fine, admire or love the same thing.
Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!
A leech that will not quit the skin until sated with blood.
The short span of life forbids us to spin out hope to any length. Soon will night be upon you, and the fabled Shades, and the shadowy Plutonian home.
Usually the modest person passes for someone reserved, the silent for a sullen person