We see not our own backs.
Ah, what is more blessed than to put cares away, when the mind lays by its burden, and tired with labor of far travel we have come to our own home and rest on the couch we longed for? This it is which alone is worth all these toils.
Away with you, water, destruction of wine!
What a woman says to an eager lover, write it on running water, write it on air.
Stop wishing to merit anyone's gratitude or thinking that anyone can become grateful.
Oh, this age! How tasteless and ill bred it is!