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Be this our wall of brass, to be conscious of having done no evil, and to grow pale at no accusation.

Horace

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Horace
Philosopher
Poet
Writer
Quintus Horatius Flaccus
Q. Horatius Flaccus
Horatius
Horatius Flaccus
Brass
Pale
Conscious
Wall
Grow
Grows
Evil
Done
Accusation

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Virtue, dear friend, needs no defense, The surest guard is innocence: None knew, till guilt created fear, What darts or poisoned arrows were
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The human race afraid of nothing, rushes on through every crime.
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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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You are judged of by what you possess.
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The dispute is still before the judge.
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What may not be altered is made lighter by patience.
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To know all things is not permitted.
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Tear thyself from delay.
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Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own: he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. Be fair or foul or rain or shine, the joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, but what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
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Let us seize, friends, our opportunity from the day as it passes.
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Difficulties elicit talents that in more fortunate circumstances would lie dormant.
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Flames too soon acquire strength if disregarded.
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O drink is mighty! secrets it unlocks, Turns hope to fact, sets cowards on to box, Takes burdens from the careworn, finds out parts In stupid folks, and teaches unknown arts. What tongue hangs fire when quickened by the bowl? What wretch so poor but wine expands his soul?
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What do sad complaints avail if the offense is not cut down by punishment.
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As shines the moon amid the lesser fires.
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The whole race of scribblers flies from the town and yearns for country life.
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Punishment follows close on crime.
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A shoe that is too large is apt to trip one, and when too small, to pinch the feet. So it is with those whose fortune does not suit them.
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Where there are many beauties in a poem I shall not cavil at a few faults proceeding either from negligence or from the imperfection of our nature.
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