Good and bad may not be dissevered; There is, as there should be, a commingling.

I loathe a friend whose gratitude grows old, a friend who takes his friend's prosperity but will not voyage with him in his grief

If there are none [gods], All our toil is without meaning.

Since luck's a nine days' wonder, wait their end.

My tongue swore, but my mind was still unpledged.

Surely again, to heal men's wounds by music's spell.

In every work a reward added makes the pleasure twice as great.