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Betray not a secret even though racked by wine or wrath.

Horace

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Horace
Philosopher
Poet
Writer
Quintus Horatius Flaccus
Q. Horatius Flaccus
Horatius
Horatius Flaccus
Betray
Wine
Secret
Though
Even
Racked
Wrath

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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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The snow has at last melted, the fields regain their herbage, and the trees their leaves.
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Ridicule often cuts the knot, where severity fails.
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Even the worthy Homer sometimes nods.
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The Sun, the stars and the seasons as they pass, some can gaze upon these with no strain of fear.
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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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The miser acquires, yet fears to use his gains.
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There is a measure in everything. There are fixed limits beyond which and short of which right cannot find a resting place.
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Poets, the first instructors of mankind, Brought all things to the proper native use.
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Not to be lost in idle admiration is the only sure means of making and preserving happiness.
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To know all things is not permitted.
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At Rome I love Tibur then, like a weathercock, at Tibur Rome.
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Wherein is the use of getting rid of one thorn out of many?
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Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach, So shalt thou live beyond the reach Of adverse Fortune's pow'r Not always tempt the distant deep, Nor always timorously creep Along the treach'rous shore.
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The earth opens impartially her bosom to receive the beggar and the prince.
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Think of the wonders uncorked by wine! It opens secrets, gives heart to our hopes, pushes the cowardly into battle, lifts the load from anxious minds, and evokes talents. Thanks to the bottle's prompting no one is lost for words, no one who's cramped by poverty fails to find release.
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He will always be a slave who does not know how to live upon a little.
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When a man is just and firm in his purpose, The citizens burning to approve a wrong Or the frowning looks of a tyrant Do not shake his fixed mind, nor the Southwind. Wild lord of the uneasy Adriatic, Nor the thunder in the mighty hand of Jove: Should the heavens crack and tumble down, As the ruins crushed him he would not fear.
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To drink away sorrow.
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