All must yield to the weight of years; conquest is not difficult for time.

The fox is very cunning, but he is more cunning who catches the fox.

And yet, and yet, in these our ghostly lives, Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake, How if our waking life, like that of sleep, Be all a dream in that eternal life To which we wake not till we sleep in death

For man's greatest crime is to have been born.

What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough: for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams.

Grief has been compared to a hydra; for every one that dies, two are born.

Our treasures trifles seem, and all our life is dreaming, and the dreams themselves are dreams.