The cautious wolf fears the pit, the hawk regards with suspicion the snare laid for her, and the fish the hook in its concealment.

Fortune, delighting in her cruel task, and playing her wanton game untiringly, is ever shifting her uncertain favours.

The bowl dispels corroding cares.

Drive Nature out with a pitchfork, yet she hurries back, And will burst through your foolish contempt, triumphant.

Those that are little, little things suit.

Take as a gift whatever the day brings forth.

Be this thy brazen bulwark, to keep a clear conscience, and never turn pale with guilt.