You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully.

When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats.

Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful.

Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses.

You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed.