The Sun, the stars and the seasons as they pass, some can gaze upon these with no strain of fear.
All things considered, nothing is beautiful.
The mob may hiss me, but I congratulate myself while I contemplate my treasures in their hoard.
Mountains will go into labour, and a silly little mouse will be born.
Every old poem is sacred.
Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.