It is not enough for poems to be fine; they must charm, and draw the mind of the listener at will.
Poetry is like painting: one piece takes your fancy if you stand close to it, another if you keep at some distance.
When you have well thought out your subject, words will come spontaneously.
There are as many preferences as there are men.
Dismiss the old horse in good time, lest he fail in the lists and the spectators laugh.
Let this be your wall of brass, to have nothing on your conscience, no guilt to make you turn pale.
By the favour of the heavens.
Is virtue raised by culture, or self-sown?
You have played enough; you have eaten and drunk enough. Now it is time for you to depart.
The changing year’s successive plan Proclaims mortality to man.
Whatever you teach, be brief; what is quickly said, the mind readily receives and faithfully retains, everything superfluous runs over as from a full vessel.
Joys do not fall to the rich alone; nor has he lived ill of whose birth and death no one took note.
And take back ill-polished stanzas to the anvil.
The short span of life forbids us to take on far-reaching hopes.
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
The ear of the bridled horse is in the mouth.
Drive Nature from your door with a pitchfork, and she will return again and again.
Care clings to wealth: the thirst for more Grows as our fortunes grow.
The impartial earth opens alike for the child of the pauper and the king.
What with your friend you nobly share, At least you rescue from your heir.