Bright youth passes swiftly as a thought.
Unless the gods deceive my mind , That man is forging fetters for himself.
Restrain thy mind, and let mildness ever attend thy tongue.
Rash, angry words, and spoken out of season, When passion has usurp'd the throne of reason, Have ruin'd many. Passion is unjust, And for an idle, transitory gust Of gratified revenge, dooms us to pay With long repentance at a later day.
When we are dead; rugs are no richer than a quick-thorn bed.
One finds many companions for food and drink, but in a serious business a man's companions are very few.