No poem was ever written by a drinker of water.
Let those who drink not, but austerely dine, dry up in law; the Muses smell of wine.
A word, once sent abroad, flies irrevocably.
Poverty urges us to do and suffer anything that we may escape from it, and so leads us away from virtue.
An undertaking beset with danger.
Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!