Seize the day, put no trust in the morrow!
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
Pale death with an impartial foot knocks at the hovels of the poor and the palaces of king.
A pauper in the midst of wealth.
The covetous person is full of fear; and he or she who lives in fear will ever be a slave.
Let your mind, happily contented with the present, care not what the morrow will bring with it.