It is the poor man who'll ever count his flock.

At times it is folly to hasten at other times, to delay. The wise do everything in its proper time.

That pleasure which can be safely indulged in is the least inviting.

That fair face will as years roll on lose its beauty, and old age will bring its wrinkles to the brow.

The man who falls in love chill find plenty of occupation.

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.

Time is a stream which glides smoothly on and is past before we know.