The Rest Were Vulgar Deaths

If You're Gonna Get Mad At Me Every Time I Do Something Stupid, Then I Guess I'll Just Have To Stop Doing Stupid Things.

But He Whose Inborn Worth His Acts Commend, Of Gentle Soul, To Human Race A Friend.

I Should Rather Labor As Another's Serf, In The Home Of A Man Without Fortune, One Whose Livelihood Was Meager, Than Rule Over All The Departed Dead.

Everything Flows And Nothing Stays.

Two Diverse Gates There Are Of Bodiless Dreams, These Of Sawn Ivory, And Those Of Horn. Such Dreams As Issue Where The Ivory Gleams Fly Without Fate, And Turn Our Hopes To Scorn. But Dreams Which Issue Through The Burnished Horn, What Man Soe'er Beholds Them On His Bed, These Work With Virtue And Of Truth Are Born.