All things deteriorate in time.
The hour is ripe, and yonder lies the way.
I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.
No day shall erase you from the memory of time
Who can blind lover's eyes?
In youth alone, unhappy mortals live; But, ah! the mighty bliss is fugitive: Discolour'd sickness, anxious labour, come, And age, and death's inexorable doom.