The life of man is the incessant walk of nature, wherein every moment is a step towards death. Even our growing to perfection is a progress to decay. Every thought we have is a sand running out of the glass of life.
Feltham.
134.
I have observed that as long as a man lives and exerts himself he can always find food and raiment, though, it may be, not of the choicest description.
Goethe.
135.
There are no riches like the sweetness of content, nor poverty comparable to the want of patience.
R. Chamberlain.
136.
’Tis not for gain, for fame, from fear