He has hay upon his horn. [He is a mischievous person.]
Those that are little, little things suit.
Leuconoe, close the book of fate, For troubles are in store, . . . . Live today, tomorrow is not.
The mob may hiss me, but I congratulate myself while I contemplate my treasures in their hoard.
Every old poem is sacred.
Who knows if the gods above will add tomorrow's span to this day's sum?