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The populace may hiss me, but when I go home and think of my money, I applaud myself.

Horace

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Horace
Philosopher
Poet
Writer
Quintus Horatius Flaccus
Q. Horatius Flaccus
Horatius
Horatius Flaccus
Money
Home
May
Think
Thinking
Hiss
Populace
Applaud

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The man is either mad or his is making verses. [Lat., Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit.]
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The whole race of scribblers flies from the town and yearns for country life.
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Surely oak and threefold brass surrounded his heart who first trusted a frail vessel to the merciless ocean.
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Damnosa quid non imminuit dies? What does not destructive time destroy?
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It is difficult to speak of the universal specifically.
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Happy the man who, removed from all cares of business, after the manner of his forefathers cultivates with his own team his paternal acres, freed from all thought of usury.
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Jokes aside, let us turn to serious matters.
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Neither men, nor gods, nor booksellers' shelves permit ordinary poets to exist. [Lat., Mediocribus esse poetis Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae.]
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In trying to be concise I become obscure.
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With you I should love to live, with you be ready to die.
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Do you count your birthdays with gratitude?
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Something is always wanting to incomplete fortune. [Lat., Curtae nescio quid semper abest rei.]
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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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While fools shun one set of faults they run into the opposite one.
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No one is content with his own lot.
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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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I will perform the function of a whetstone, which is about to restore sharpness to iron, though itself unable to cut. [Lat., Fungar vice cotis, acutum Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsi secandi.]
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