Alack our life, so beautiful to see, With how much ease life losest, in a day, What many years with pain and toil amassed!

Often on earth the gentlest heart is fain To feed and banquet on another's woe.

How fortune brings to earth the oversure!

Hope is incredible to the slave of grief.

Mere elegance of language can produce at best but an empty renown.

Life hurries on, a frantic refugee, And Death, with great forced marches, follows fast; And all the present leagues with all the past And all the future to make war on me.

Nothing mortal is enduring, and there is nothing sweet which does not presently end in bitterness.

How quick the old woe follows a little bliss!

There is no lighter burden, nor more agreeable, than a pen.

The aged love what is practical, while impetuous youth longs only for what is dazzling.