I have to submit to much in order to pacify the touchy tribe of poets.

Many heroes lived before Agamemnon; but all are unknown and unwept, extinguished in everlasting night, because they have no spirited chronicler.

The same (hated) man will be loved after he's dead. How quickly we forget.

Dare to begin! He who postpones living rightly is like the rustic who waits for the river to run out before he crosses.

It is but a poor establishment where there are not many superfluous things which the owner knows not of, and which go to the thieves.

Much is wanting to those who seek or covet much.

What prevents a man's speaking good sense with a smile on his face?