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.

For example, the tiny ant, a creature of great industry, drags with its mouth whatever it can, and adds it to the heap which she is piling up, not unaware nor careless of the future.

The musician who always plays on the same string is laughed at.

An undertaking beset with danger.

Seize the day, and put the least possible trust in tomorrow.

The power of daring anything their fancy suggest, as always been conceded to the painter and the poet.

For a man learns more quickly and remembers more easily that which he laughs at, than that which he approves and reveres.