Work at it night and day.
He that has given today may, if he so please, take away tomorrow.
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
The mad is either insane or he is composing verses.
A wise God shrouds the future in obscure darkness.
I praise her (Fortune) while she lasts; if she shakes her quick wings, I resign what she has given, and take refuge in my own virtue, and seek honest undowered Poverty.