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.
Venus favors the bold.
I hate, and yet must love the thing I hate.
There will grow from straws a mighty heap.
What is now reason was formerly impulse or instinct.
Art lies in concealing art.