Not gods, nor men, nor even booksellers have put up with poets' being second-rate.

Anger is short-lived madness.

It is but a poor establishment where there are not many superfluous things which the owner knows not of, and which go to the thieves.

The covetous are always in want.

Not even for an hour can you bear to be alone, nor can you advantageously apply your leisure time, but you endeavor, a fugitive and wanderer, to escape from yourself, now vainly seeking to banish remorse by wine, and now by sleep; but the gloomy companion presses on you, and pursues you as you fly.

In the midst of hopes and cares, of apprehensions and of disquietude, regard every day that dawns upon you as if it was to be your last; then super-added hours, to the enjoyment of which you had not looked forward, will prove an acceptable boon.

Make a good use of the present.