Nor has he lived in vain, who from his cradle to his grave has passed his life in seclusion.

It is but a poor establishment where there are not many superfluous things which the owner knows not of, and which go to the thieves.

Years, following years, steal something every day; At last they steal us from ourselves away.

He paints a dolphin in the woods, a boar in the waves.

One night awaits all, and death's path must be trodden once and for all.

Each day that fate adds to your life, put down as so much gain.

In Rome you long for the country. In the country you praise to the skies the distant town.