Unless the vessel be pure, everything which is poured into it will turn sour.
Dispel the cold, bounteously replenishing the hearth with logs.
Not to hope for things to last forever, is what the year teaches and even the hour which snatches a nice day away.
Leuconoe, close the book of fate, For troubles are in store, . . . . Live today, tomorrow is not.
Oh! thou who are greatly mad, deign to spare me who am less mad.
The hour of happiness will be the more welcome, the less it was expected.