The good of other times let people state; I think it lucky I was born so late.
Grief brims itself and flows away in tears.
Lente, lente currite, noctis equi. Translation: Run slowly, slowly, horses of the night.
Although they posses enough, and more than enough still they yearn for more.
When there is plenty of wine, sorrow and worry take wing.
What is deservedly suffered must be borne with calmness, but when the pain is unmerited, the grief is resistless.