Not to hope for things to last forever, is what the year teaches and even the hour which snatches a nice day away.

Fate with impartial hand turns out the doom of high and low; her capacious urn is constantly shaking the names of all mankind.

Gold delights to walk through the very midst of the guard, and to break its way through hard rocks, more powerful in its blow than lightning.

Glory drags all men along, low as well as high, bound captive at the wheels of her glittering car.

By the favour of the heavens

He is not poor who has a competency.

A picture is a poem without words