Our Fruitless Labours Mourn, And Only Rich

Generations Of Men Are Like The Leaves. In Winter, Winds Blow Them Down To Earth, But Then, When Spring Season Comes Again, The Budding Wood Grows More. And So With Men: One Generation Grows, Another Dies Away.

Of Men Who Have A Sense Of Honor, More Come Through Alive Than Are Slain, But From Those Who Flee Comes Neither Glory Nor Any Help.

To Labour Is The Lot Of Man Below; And When Jove Gave Us Life, He Gave Us Woe.

There Is Nothing Alive More Agonized Than Man / Of All That Breathe And Crawl Across The Earth.

From Now On Walking Is My Beer And Feeling Good Is My Hangover.