When the roses are gone, nothing is left but the thorn.

Thanks are justly due for boons unbought

The penalty may be removed, the crime is eternal.

Fair peace is becoming to men; fierce anger belongs to beasts.

When I was from Cupid's passions free, my Muse was mute and wrote no elegy.

Pursuits become habits.

Alas! how difficult it is not to betray one's guilt by one's looks.