Man Is So Constituted That He Then

I Who Once Wrote Songs With Keen Delight Am Now By Sorrow Driven To Take Up Melancholy Measures. Wounded Muses Tell Me What I Must Write, And Elegiac Verses Bathe My Face With Real Tears. Not Even Terror Could Drive From Me These Faithful Companions Of My Long Journey. Poetry, Which Was Once The Glory Of My Happy And Flourishing Youth, Is Still My Comfort In This Misery Of My Old Age.

It's My Belief That History Is A Wheel. 'inconstancy Is My Very Essence,'? Says The Wheel. Rise Up On My Spokes If You Like But Don't Complain When You're Cast Back Down Into The Depths. Good Times Pass Away, But Then So Do The Bad. Mutability Is Our Tragedy, But It's Also Our Hope. The Worst Of Times, Like The Best, Are Always Passing Away.

The Completely Simultaneous And Perfect Possession Of Unlimited Life At A Single Moment.

Every Man Must Be Content With That Glory Which He May Have At Home.

He Who Has Calmly Reconciled His Life To Fate, And Set Proud Death Beneath His Feet, Can Look Fortune In The Face, Unbending Both To Good And Bad; His Countenance Unconquered.