The cook cares not a bit for toil, toil, if the fowl be plump and fat
He is praised by some, blamed by others.
No poems can please long or live that are written by water drinkers.
A wise God shrouds the future in obscure darkness.
Nor has he spent his life badly who has passed it in privacy.
I beseech you to treasure up in your hearts these my parting words: Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.