Pale death knocks with impartial foot at poor men's hovels and king's palaces.
Poets wish to profit or to please.
What with your friend you nobly share, At least you rescue from your heir.
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
Life gives nothing to man without labor.
Nothing is too high for the daring of mortals: we storm heaven itself in our folly.