The wailing of the newborn infant is mingled with the dirge for the dead.

Continual dropping wears away a stone.

We, peopling the void air, make gods to whom we impute the ills we ought to bear.

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

It's easier to avoid the snares of love than to escape once you are in that net whose cords and knots are strong; but even so, enmeshed, entangled, you can still get out unless, poor fool, you stand in your own way.

You may complete as many generations as you please during your life; none the less will that everlasting death await you.

If men saw that a term was set to their troubles, they would find strength in some way to withstand the hocus-pocus and intimidations of the prophets.