To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter.
Oh, trebly blest the placid lot of those whose hearth foundations are in pure love laid, where husband's breast with tempered ardor glows, and wife, oft mother, is in heart a maid!
When the anger of the gods is incurred, wealth or power only bring more devastating punishment.
None can hold fortune still and make it last.
Out of some little thing, too free a tongue can make an outrageous wrangle.
Oh, what a vileness human beauty is; corroding, corrupting everything it touches.