A word, once sent abroad, flies irrevocably.
A poem is like a painting.
Misfortunes, untoward events, lay open, disclose the skill of a general, while success conceals his weakness, his weak points.
The whole race of scribblers flies from the town and yearns for country life.
All things considered, nothing is beautiful.
There is a proper measure in all things, certain limits beyond which and short of which right is not to be found. Who so cultivates the golden mean avoids the poverty of a hovel and the envy of a palace.