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Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum, Multa recedentes adimiunt. (The years, as they come, bring many agreeable things with them as they go, they take many away.)
Horace
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Horace
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Quintus Horatius Flaccus
Q. Horatius Flaccus
Horatius
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Leave the rest to the gods.
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What with your friend you nobly share, At least you rescue from your heir.
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Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
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A cup concealed in the dress is rarely honestly carried.
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Nor has he lived in vain, who from his cradle to his grave has passed his life in seclusion.
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It is of no consequence of what parents a man is born, as long as he be a man of merit.
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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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Be not ashamed to have had wild days, but not to have sown your wild oats.
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We are all compelled to take the same road from the urn of death, shaken for all, sooner or later the lot must come forth. [Lat., Omnes eodem cogimur omnium Versatur urna serius, ocius Sors exitura.]
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