Delight in splendor is No more than happiness with little: for both Have their appeal.
The fountains of sacred rivers flow upwards (i.e., everything is turned topsy turvy).
Happiness is brief. It will not stay. God batters at its sails.
Prosperity is full of friends.
There seems to be some pleasure for women in sick talk of one another.
That mortal is a fool who, prospering, thinks his life has any strong foundation; since our fortune's course of action is the reeling way a madman takes, and no one person is ever happy all the time.