The common people are but ill judges of a man's merits; they are slaves to fame, and their eyes are dazzled with the pomp of titles and large retinue. No wonder, then, that they bestow their honors on those who least deserve them.

Envy is not to be conquered but by death.

The covetous man is ever in want.

Get what start the sinner may, Retribution, for all her lame leg, never quits his track.

Summer treads on heels of spring.

Death is the last limit of all things.

The trainer trains the docile horse to turn, with his sensitive neck, whichever way the rider indicates.