Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.

Seek not to inquire what the morrow will bring with it.

Fidelity is the sister of justice.

Heir follows heir, as wave succeeds to wave.

Those who say nothing about their poverty will obtain more than those who turn beggars.

Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.

Nothing is so difficult but that man will accomplish it.