The muse does not allow the praise-de-serving here to die: she enthrones him in the heavens.
Drive Nature out with a pitchfork, yet she hurries back, And will burst through your foolish contempt, triumphant.
Seek not to inquire what the morrow will bring with it.
It was a wine jar when the molding began: as the wheel runs round why does it turn out a water pitcher?
Not gods, nor men, nor even booksellers have put up with poets' being second-rate.
Seize the day [Carpe diem]: trust not to the morrow.