Where there are many beauties in a poem I shall not cavil at a few faults proceeding either from negligence or from the imperfection of our nature.

Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.

Leuconoe, close the book of fate, For troubles are in store, . . . . Live today, tomorrow is not.

No poems can please long or live that are written by water drinkers.

The Sun, the stars and the seasons as they pass, some can gaze upon these with no strain of fear.

Leave the rest to the gods.

Dare to begin! He who postpones living rightly is like the rustic who waits for the river to run out before he crosses.