We hate merit while it is with us; when taken away from our gaze, we long for it jealously.
The trainer trains the docile horse to turn, with his sensitive neck, whichever way the rider indicates.
Let your poem be kept nine years.
Busy idleness urges us on.
Pry not into the affairs of others, and keep secret that which has been entrusted to you, though sorely tempted by wine and passion.
Lightning strikes the tops of the mountains.