Oh death, death, why do you never come to me thus summoned always day by day?
Love, you mock us for your sport.
No man loves life like him that's growing old.
The stubbornest of wills Are soonest bended, as the hardest iron, O'er-heated in the fire to brittleness,Flies soonest into fragments, shivered through.
The sleep of a sick man has keen eyes. It is a sleep unsleeping.
Who feels no ills, should, therefore, fear them; and when fortune smiles, be doubly cautious, lest destruction come remorseless on him, and he fall unpitied.