Ah Fortune, what god is more cruel to us than thou! How thou delightest ever to make sport of human life!
Let your poem be kept nine years.
Let him who has enough ask for nothing more.
To please great men is not the last degree of praise.
Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.
Never inquire into another man's secret; bur conceal that which is intrusted to you, though pressed both be wine and anger to reveal it.