Sing in me, muse, of arms and a man, who first from the shores of Troy.
A fickle and changeful thing is a woman ever.
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.
All our sweetest hours fly fastest.
We are not all able to do all things.
Impotent fury rages powerless and to no purpose.