How Prone To Doubt, How Cautious Are

Generations Of Men Are Like The Leaves. In Winter, Winds Blow Them Down To Earth, But Then, When Spring Season Comes Again, The Budding Wood Grows More. And So With Men: One Generation Grows, Another Dies Away.

There Is Nothing More Dread And More Shameless Than A Woman Who Plans Such Deeds In Her Heart As The Foul Deed Which She Plotted When She Contrived Her Husband's Murder.

My Life Is More To Me Than All The Wealth Of Ilius

I Would Rather Be A Serf In A Poor Man's House And Be Above Ground Than Reign Among The Dead.

All Men Owe Honor To The Poets - Honor And Awe; For They Are Dearest To The Muse Who Puts Upon Their Lips The Ways Of Life.