Lente, lente currite, noctis equi. Translation: Run slowly, slowly, horses of the night.
O ye gods! what thick encircling darkness blinds the minds of men!
How little is the promise of the child fulfilled in the man.
Ah me! love can not be cured by herbs.
Art lies by its own artifice.
Time itself flows on with constant motion, just like a river: for no more than a river can the fleeting hour stand still. As wave is driven on by wave, and, itself pursued, pursues the one before, so the moments of time at once flee and follow, and are ever new.