One thing is made of another, and nature allows no new creation except at the price of death.

Sweet it is, when on the high seas the winds are lashing the waters, to gaze from the land on another's struggles.

A falling drop at last will carve a stone.

We notice that the mind grows with the body, and with it decays.

Certainly it was no design of the atoms to place themselves in a particular order, nor did they decide what motions each should have. But atoms were struck with blows in many ways and carried along by their own weight from infinite times up to the present.

Violence and wrong enclose all who commit them in their meshes and do mostly recoil on him from whom they begin.

[N]ature repairs one thing from another and allows nothing to be born without the aid of another's death.