A picture is a poem without words
Wealth increaseth, but a nameless something is ever wanting to our insufficient fortune.
Friends fly away when the cask has been drained to the dregs.
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.
The cask will long retain the flavour of the wine with which it was first seasoned.
What has this unfeeling age of ours left untried, what wickedness has it shunned?