Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.
He that would soothe sorrow must not argue on the vanity of the most deceitful hopes.
I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.
As long as the Fates permit, live cheerfully.
If a farmer fills his barn with grain, he gets mice. If he leaves it empty, he gets actors.