The old must always make way for the new, and one thing must be built out of the ruins of another. There is no murky pit of hell awaiting anyone.

From the midst of the very fountain of pleasure, something of bitterness arises to vex us in the flower of enjoyment.

Violence and injury enclose in their net all that do such things, and generally return upon him who began.

Many animals even now spring out of the soil, Coalescing from the rains and the heat of the sun. Small wonder, then, if more and bigger creatures, Full-formed, arose from the new young earth and sky. The breed, for instance, of the dappled birds Shucked off their eggshells in the springtime, as Crickets in summer will slip their slight cocoons All by themselves, and search for food and life. Earth gave you, then, the first of mortal kinds, For all the fields were soaked with warmth and moisture.

Air, I should explain, becomes wind when it is agitated.

Such are the heights of wickedness to which men are driven by religion.

Constant dripping hollows out a stone.