We have ploughed the vast ocean in a fragile bark.
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.
A wealthy traveller fears an ambush, while one with empty pockets journeys on in safety.
The time will come when you will hate the sight of a mirror.
It is the mind that makes the man, and our vigour is in our immortal soul.
We are slow to believe that which if believed would hurt our feelings.