Busy idleness urges us on.
He paints a dolphin in the woods, a boar in the waves.
Who then is sane? He who is not a fool.
What is wealth to me if I cannot enjoy it?
Happy the man who, removed from all cares of business, after the manner of his forefathers cultivates with his own team his paternal acres, freed from all thought of usury.
Limbs of a dismembered poet.