Mountains will go into labour, and a silly little mouse will be born.

Life grants nothing to us mortals without hard work.

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

Not to be lost in idle admiration is the only sure means of making and preserving happiness.

Come boy, and pour for me a cup Of old Falernian. Fill it up With wine, strong, sparkling, bright, and clear; Our host decrees no water here. Let dullards drink the Nymph's pale brew, The sluggish thin their blood with dew. For such pale stuff we have no use; For us the purple grape's rich juice. Begone, ye chilling water sprite; Here burning Bacchus rules tonight! Catullus, Selections From Catullus No poems can live long or please that are written by water-drinkers.

Let me posses what I now have, or even less, so that I may enjoy my remaining days, if Heaven grant any to remain.

There is moderation in everything.