In Rome you long for the country. In the country you praise to the skies the distant town.
Leuconoe, close the book of fate, For troubles are in store, . . . . Live today, tomorrow is not.
Betray not a secret even though racked by wine or wrath.
Death is the ultimate boundary of human matters.
While your client is watching for you at the front door, slip out at the back.
He will always be a slave who does not know how to live upon a little.