Toil, says the proverb, is the sire of fame.
Both to the rich and poor, wine is the happy antidote for sorrow.
Stronger than lover's love is lover's hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.
The same man cannot well be skilled in everything; each has his special excellence.
Delusive hope still points to distant good.
No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow.