Out Of Nothing Can Come, And Nothing

Let Them (the Wicked) See The Beauty Of Virtue, And Pine At Having Forsaken Her. [lat., Virtutem Videant, Intabescantque Relicta.]

Our Life Is Our Own To-day, To-morrow You Will Be Dust, A Shade, And A Tale That Is Told. Live Mindful Of Death; The Hour Flies.

Is Any Man Free Except The One Who Can Pass His Life As He Pleases?

Oh, What A Void There Is In Things.

But When To-morrow Comes, Yesterday's Morrow Will Have Been Already Spent: And Lo! A Fresh Morrow Will Be For Ever Making Away With Our Years, Each Just Beyond Our Grasp.