Anger is brief madness

Remember you must die whether you sit about moping all day long or whether on feast days you stretch out in a green field, happy with a bottle of Falernian from your innermost cellar.

As riches grow, care follows, and a thirst For more and more.

He tosses aside his paint-pots and his words a foot and a half long.

It was a wine jar when the molding began: as the wheel runs round why does it turn out a water pitcher?

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

Pale death knocks with impartial foot at poor men's hovels and king's palaces.