There is moderation in everything.
The trainer trains the docile horse to turn, with his sensitive neck, whichever way the rider indicates.
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
A cup concealed in the dress is rarely honestly carried.
The same (hated) man will be loved after he's dead. How quickly we forget.
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.