I warn the marauder dragging plunder, chaotic, rich beyond all rights: he'll strike his sails, harried at long last, stunned when the squalls of torment break his spars to bits.

A great ox stands on my tongue.

The tongue of slander is too prompt with wanton malice to wound the stranger.

Time cleanses what it touches over time.

For hostile word let hostile word be paid.

Be it mine to draw from wisdom's fount, pure as it flows, that calm of soul which virtue only knows.

The act of evil breeds others to follow, young sins in its own likeness.