In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.
Gently touching with the charm of poetry.
Falling drops will at last wear away stone.
The first-beginnings of things cannot be distinguished by the eye.
And part of the soil is called to wash away In storms and streams shave close and gnaw the rocks. Besides, whatever the earth feeds and grows Is restored to earth. And since she surely is The womb of all things and their common grave, Earth must dwindle, you see and take on growth again.
Even if I knew nothing of the atoms, I would venture to assert on the evidence of the celestial phenomena themselves, supported by many other arguments, that the universe was certainly not created for us by divine power: it is so full of imperfections.