Death, Like Birth, Is A Secret Of

Think Not So Much Of What Thou Hast Not As Of What Thou Hast: But Of The Things Which Thou Hast, Select The Best, And Then Reflect How Eagerly They Would Have Been Sought, If Thou Hadst Them Not. At The Same Time, However, Take Care That Thou Dost Not, Through Being So Pleased With Them, Accustom Thyself To Overvalue Them, So As To Be Disturbed If Ever Thou Shouldst Not Have Them.

I Will March On In The Path Of Nature Till My Legs Sink Under Me, And Then I Shall Be At Rest, And Expire Into That Air Which Has Given Me My Daily Breath.

Perfection Of Character Is This: To Live Each Day As If It Were Your Last, Without Frenzy, Without Apathy, Without Pretence.

The Cucumber Is Bitter? Then Throw It Out. There Are Brambles In The Path? Then Go Around Them. That's All You Need To Know. Nothing More. Don't Demand To Know "why Such Things Exist." Anyone Who Understands The World Will Laugh At You, Just As A Carpenter Would If You Seemed Shocked At Finding Sawdust In His Workshop, Or A Shoemaker At Scraps Of Leather Left Over From Work.

Yet Living And Dying, Honour And Dishonour, Pain And Pleasure, Riches And Poverty, And So Forth Are Equally The Lot Of Good Men And Bad. Things Like These Neither Elevate Nor Degrade; And Therefore They Are No More Good Than They Are Evil.