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.

From the egg to the apple.

A word, once sent abroad, flies irrevocably.

Sport begets tumultuous strife and wrath, and wrath begets fierce quarrels and war to the death.

There is a mean in all things; even virtue itself has stated limits; which not being strictly observed, it ceases to be virtue.

As a rule, adversity reveals genius and prosperity hides it

Whatever hour God has blessed you with, take it with a grateful hand.