Pale Death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings.
The populace may hiss me, but when I go home and think of my money, I applaud myself.
In neglected fields the fern grows, which must be cleared out by fire.
The wolf dreads the pitfall, the hawk suspects the snare, and the kite the covered hook.
In the word of no master am I bound to believe.
Let your mind, happily contented with the present, care not what the morrow will bring with it.