Even play has ended in fierce strife and anger.
It is a sweet and seemly thing to die for one's country.
Let your mind, happily contented with the present, care not what the morrow will bring with it.
Leave the rest to the gods.
Where there are many beauties in a poem I shall not cavil at a few faults proceeding either from negligence or from the imperfection of our nature.
To know all things is not permitted.