You'll get no laurel crown for outrunning a burrow.
Our days pass by, and are scored against us.
Birdes of a feather will flocke togither.
The swan murmurs sweet strains with a flattering tongue, itself the singer of its own dirge.
The shameless Chloe placed on the tombs of her seven husbands the inscription, "The work of Chloe." How could she have expressed herself more plainly?
Be content to be what you are, and prefer nothing to it, and do not fear or wish for your last day.