Trust not the horse, O Trojans. Be it what it may, I fear the Grecians even when they offer gifts.
Each of us bears his own Hell.
None but himself can be his parallel.
Who can blind lover's eyes?
What each man feared would happen to himself, did not trouble him when he saw that it would ruin another.
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.