This used to be among my prayers - a piece of land not so very large, which would contain a garden
And Tragedy should blush as much to stoop To the low mimic follies of a farce, As a grave matron would to dance with girls.
Smooth out with wine the worries of a wrinkled brow.
Never despair while under the guidance and auspices of Teucer.
The cook cares not a bit for toil, toil, if the fowl be plump and fat
He will always be a slave who does not know how to live upon a little.