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Verses devoid of substance, melodious trifles. [Lat., Versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae.]

Horace

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Horace
Philosopher
Poet
Writer
Quintus Horatius Flaccus
Q. Horatius Flaccus
Horatius
Horatius Flaccus
Melodious
Devoid
Trifles
Verses
Versus
Substance
Poetry

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Leuconoe, close the book of fate, For troubles are in store, . . . . Live today, tomorrow is not.
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Get what start the sinner may, Retribution, for all her lame leg, never quits his track.
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Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years slip by, nor will piety give any stay to wrinkles and pressing old age and untamable death.
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Everything that is superfluous overflows from the full bosom.
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Only a stomach that rarely feels hungry scorns common things.
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The covetous person is full of fear and he or she who lives in fear will ever be a slave.
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Too indolent to bear the toil of writing I mean of writing well I say nothing about quantity. [Lat., Piger scribendi ferre laborem Scribendi recte, nam ut multum nil moror.]
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No man ever properly calculates from time to time what it is his duty to avoid.
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He who is greedy is always in want.
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False praise can please, and calumny affright None but the vicious, and the hypocrite.
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The mad is either insane or he is composing verses.
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Death is the ultimate boundary of human matters.
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To teach is to delight.
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For, once begun, Your task is easy half the work is done.
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Who knows whether the gods will add tomorrow to the present hour?
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Damnosa quid non imminuit dies? What does not destructive time destroy?
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Those that are little, little things suit.
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He makes himself ridiculous who is for ever repeating the same mistake.
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Decus et pretium recte petit experiens vir. The man who makes the attempt justly aims at honour and reward.
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I abhor the profane rabble and keep them at a distance.
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