A thousand ills require a thousand cures.
Let others praise ancient times; I am glad I was born in these.
Sleep, rest of nature, O sleep, most gentle of the divinities, peace of the soul, thou at whose presence care disappears, who soothest hearts wearied with daily employments, and makest them strong again for labour!
There is no useful thing which may not be turned to an injurious purpose.
That, which has not its alternation of rest, will not last long.
Suppressed grief suffocates, it rages within the breast, and is forced to multiply its strength.