He who sings the praises of his boyhood's days.
The covetous man is ever in want.
The wolf attacks with his fang, the bull with his horn.
That corner of the world smiles for me more than anywhere else.
Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.
We hate merit while it is with us; when taken away from our gaze, we long for it jealously.