Time is a stream which glides smoothly on and is past before we know.
Beauty is a fragile gift.
The mind ill at ease, the body suffers also.
We hate the hawk because he ever lives in battle.
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.
Opportunity is ever worth expecting; let your hood be ever hanging ready. The fish will be in the pool where you least imagine it to be.