Deep in the cavern of the infant's breast; the father's nature lurks, and lives anew.
Let your literary compositions be kept from the public eye for nine years at least.
In the midst of hopes and cares, of apprehensions and of disquietude, regard every day that dawns upon you as if it was to be your last; then super-added hours, to the enjoyment of which you had not looked forward, will prove an acceptable boon.
Not gods, nor men, nor even booksellers have put up with poets' being second-rate.
Fierce eagles breed not the tender dove.
Envy is not to be conquered but by death.