Take the good the gods provide thee.
Swift was the race, but short the time to run.
Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother ten, Man looks aloft; and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies.
Set all things in their own peculiar place, and know that order is the greatest grace.
It's a hard world, neighbors, if a man's oath must be his master.
Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.