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The mad is either insane or he is composing verses.

Horace

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Horace
Philosopher
Poet
Writer
Quintus Horatius Flaccus
Q. Horatius Flaccus
Horatius
Horatius Flaccus
Mad
Insane
Either
Composing
Verses
Latin

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As a neighboring funeral terrifies sick misers, and fear obliges them to have some regard for themselves so, the disgrace of others will often deter tender minds from vice.
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Let the fictitious sources of pleasure be as near as possible to the true.
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Acquittal of the guilty damns the judge.
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That destructive siren, sloth, is ever to be avoided.
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The common people are but ill judges of a man's merits they are slaves to fame, and their eyes are dazzled with the pomp of titles and large retinue. No wonder, then, that they bestow their honors on those who least deserve them.
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Justice, though moving with tardy pace, has seldom failed to overtake the wicked in their flight. [Lat., Raro antecedentem scelestum Deseruit pede poena claudo.]
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Take subject matter equal to your powers, and ponder long, what your shoulders cannot bear, and what they can.
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Words will not fail when the matter is well considered.
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I have completed a monument more lasting than brass.
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I would advise him who wishes to imitate well, to look closely into life and manners, and thereby to learn to express them with truth.
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Let not a god interfere unless where a god's assistance is necessary. [Adopt extreme measures only in extreme cases.]
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As a true translator you will take care not to translate word for word.
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Poets, the first instructors of mankind, Brought all things to the proper native use.
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A man perfect to the finger tips.
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I am not what I once was. [Lat., Non sum qualis eram.]
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Not to hope for things to last forever, is what the year teaches and even the hour which snatches a nice day away.
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The more we deny ourselves, the more the gods supply our wants. [Lat., Quanto quisque sibi plura negaverit, A dis plura feret.]
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Man is never watchful enough against dangers that threaten him every hour. [Lat., Quid quisque vitet nunquam homini satis Cautum est in horas.]
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How does it happen, Maecenas, that no one is content with that lot in life which he has chosen, or which chance has thrown in his way, but praises those who follow a different course? [Lat., Qui fit, Maecenas, ut nemo quam sibi sortem, Seu ratio dederit, seu fors objecerit, illa Contentus vivat? laudet diversa sequentes.]
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Glory drags all men along, low as well as high, bound captive at the wheels of her glittering car.
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