“Bodies, again, Are partly primal germs of things, and partly Unions deriving from the primal germs.”

These the senses we trust, first, last, and always.

It’s easier to avoid the snares of love than to escape once you are in that net.

Violence and wrong enclose all who commit them in their meshes and do mostly recoil on him from whom they begin.

From the heart of the fountain of delight rises a jet of bitterness that tortures us among the very flowers.

It is doubtful what fortune to-morrow will bring.

Never trust the calm sea when she shows her false alluring smile.

The mind like a sick body can be healed and changed by medicine.

Meantime, when once we know from nothing still Nothing can be create, we shall divine More clearly what we seek: those elements From which alone all things created are, And how accomplished by no tool of Gods.

Continual dropping wears away a stone.

If the matter of death is reduced to sleep and rest, what can there be so bitter in it, that any one should pine in eternal grief for the decease of a friend?

What is food to one man may be fierce poison to others.

Men are eager to tread underfoot what they have once too much feared.

Yet a little while, and (the happy hour) will be over, nor ever more shall we be able to recall it.

For thee the wonder-working earth puts forth sweet flowers.

Violence and injury enclose in their net all that do such things, and generally return upon him who began.

Some species increase, others diminish, and in a short space the generations of living creatures are changed and, like runners, pass on the torch of life.