He who sings the praises of his boyhood's days.

Even the worthy Homer sometimes nods.

Leuconoe, close the book of fate, For troubles are in store, . . . . Live today, tomorrow is not.

The populace may hiss me, but when I go home and think of my money, I applaud myself.

At Rome I love Tibur; then, like a weathercock, at Tibur Rome.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own: he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. Be fair or foul or rain or shine, the joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, but what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

Be prepared to go mad with fixed rule and method.