Pale Death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings.
Mediocrity is not allowed to poets, either by the gods or men.
While fools shun one set of faults they run into the opposite one.
The fellow is either a madman or a poet.
Clogged with yesterday's excess, the body drags the mind down with it.
Those who cross the sea, change sky, but not soul.