Every old poem is sacred.
Faults are committed within the walls of Troy and also without. [There is fault on both sides.]
We hate merit while it is with us; when taken away from our gaze, we long for it jealously.
A cup concealed in the dress is rarely honestly carried.
Gold loves to make its way through guards, and breaks through barriers of stone more easily than the lightning's bolt.
Whom does undeserved honour please, and undeserved blame alarm, but the base and the liar?