He has half the deed done who has made a beginning.
Not gods, nor men, nor even booksellers have put up with poets' being second-rate.
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
Welcome will arrived, the hour that was not hoped for.
He who is upright in his way of life and free from sin.
Nothing is swifter than rumor.