Unless the vessel be pure, everything which is poured into it will turn sour.

Joyful let the soul be in the present, let it disdain to trouble about what is beyond and temper bitterness with a laugh. Nothing is blessed forever.

Work at it night and day.

One wanders to the left, another to the right. Both are equally in error, but, are seduced by different delusions.

Busy idleness urges us on.

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

Whither, O god of wine, art thou hurrying me, whilst under thy all-powerful influence?