For the short-lived bloom and contracted span of brief and wretched life is fast fleeting away! While we are drinking and calling for garlands, ointments, and women, old age steals swiftly on with noiseless step.
Few tyrants go down to the infernal regions by a natural death.
There is nothing worse than words of kindness that lie.
But who guards the guardians?
Poverty is bitter, but it has no harder pang than that it makes men ridiculous.
It is a wretched thing to live on the fame of others.