Come boy, and pour for me a cup Of old Falernian. Fill it up With wine, strong, sparkling, bright, and clear; Our host decrees no water here. Let dullards drink the Nymph's pale brew, The sluggish thin their blood with dew. For such pale stuff we have no use; For us the purple grape's rich juice. Begone, ye chilling water sprite; Here burning Bacchus rules tonight! Catullus, Selections From Catullus No poems can live long or please that are written by water-drinkers.

Take subject matter equal to your powers, and ponder long, what your shoulders cannot bear, and what they can.

Never inquire into another man's secret; bur conceal that which is intrusted to you, though pressed both be wine and anger to reveal it.

If you cannot conduct yourself with propriety, give place to those who can.

Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.

Riches with their wicked inducements increase; nevertheless, avarice is never satisfied.

The same (hated) man will be loved after he's dead. How quickly we forget.