Pale death approaches with equal step, and knocks indiscriminately at the door of teh cottage, and the portals of the palace.
The musician who always plays on the same string is laughed at.
Lighten grief with hopes of a brighter morrow; Temper joy, in fear of a change of fortune.
Does he council you better who bids you, Money, by right means, if you can: but by any means, make money ?
No poems can please long or live that are written by water drinkers.
Leave the rest to the gods.