Rash indeed is he who reckons on tomorrow, or happily on the days beyond it; for tomorrow is not, until today is past.
To give birth is a fearsome thing; there is no hating the child one has borne even when injured by it.
What house, bloated with luxury, ever became prosperous without a woman's excellence?
Stranger in a strange country.
Even the stout of heart shrink when they see the approach of death.
Not to be born is, past all prizing, best.