No poems can please long or live that are written by water drinkers.
Naked I seek the camp of those who desire nothing.
Remember you must die whether you sit about moping all day long or whether on feast days you stretch out in a green field, happy with a bottle of Falernian from your innermost cellar.
In the word of no master am I bound to believe.
In an evil hour thou bring'st her home. [You are marrying a shrew.]
Nothing's beautiful from every point of view.