He wears himself out by his labours, and grows old through his love of possessing wealth.

Happy he who far from business, like the primitive are of mortals, cultivates with his own oxen the fields of his fathers, free from all anxieties of gain.

Fidelity is the sister of justice.

The snow has at last melted, the fields regain their herbage, and the trees their leaves.

Had the crow only fed without cawing she would have had more to eat, and much less of strife and envy to contend with. [To noise abroad our success is to invite envy and competition.]

If you drive nature out with a pitchfork, she will soon find a way back.

Dismiss the old horse in good time, lest he fail in the lists and the spectators laugh.