It is art to conceal art. -Ars est celare artem

From high Meonia's rocky shores I came, Of poor decsent, Acoetes is my name, My sire was measly born: no oxen ploughed, His fruitful fields, nor in his pastures lowed, His whole estate within the waters lay' With lines and hooks he caught the finny prey; His art was all his livelehood, which he Thus with his dying lips bequeathed to me: In streams, my boy, and rivers take thy chance; There swims', said he, Thy whole inheritance.

What is reason now was passion heretofore.

An injury may prove a blessing.

Meet the disorder in the outset, the medicine may be too late, when the disease has gained ground through delay.

Wherever I look there is nothing but the image of death.

In the make-up of human beings, intelligence counts for more than our hands, and that is our true strength.