We consume our tomorrows fretting about our yesterdays.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform, and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

Each man has his own desires; all do not possess the same inclinations.

You pray for good health and a body that will be strong in old age. Good but your rich foods block the gods' answer and tie Jupiter's hands.

That master of arts, that dispenser of genius, the Belly.

Is any man free except the one who can pass his life as he pleases?

And don't consult anyone's opinions but your own.

Out of nothing can come, and nothing can become nothing.

Does he offer you his foolish beard to pluck at?

Oh, what a void there is in things.