Dismiss the old horse in good time, lest he fail in the lists and the spectators laugh.
Capture the day, put minimum trust on tomorrow.
Poetry is like painting: one piece takes your fancy if you stand close to it, another if you keep at some distance.
Thus one thing requires assistance from another, and joins in friendly help.
Who knows whether the gods will add tomorrow to the present hour?
Fate with impartial hand turns out the doom of high and low; her capacious urn is constantly shaking the names of all mankind.