Happy the man to whom heaven has given a morsel of bread without laying him under the obligation of thanking any other for it than heaven itself.
The pitcher goes so often to the fountain that if gets broken.
The absent feel and fear every ill.
Soul of fibre and heart of oak.
There is a remedy for everything but death; who, in spite of our teeth, will take us in his clutches.
There is no remembrance which time does not obliterate, nor pain which death does not terminate.