In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.

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

Constant dripping hollows out a stone.

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

At this stage you must admit that whatever is seen to be sentient is nevertheless composed of atoms that are insentient. The phenomena open to our observation so not contradict this conclusion or conflict with it. Rather they lead us by the hand and compel us to believe that the animate is born, as I maintain, of the insentient.

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

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