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

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

The dower of great beauty has always been misfortune, since happiness and beauty do not agree together.

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.

These flowers, which were splendid and sprightly, waking in the dawn of the morning, in the evening will be a pitiful frivolity, sleeping in the cold night's arms.

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