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Envy feeds on the living, after death it rests, then the honor of a man protects him.

Ovid

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Ovid
Author
Elegist
Mythographer
Poet
Writer
Publius Ovidius Naso
P. Ovidius Naso
Protect
Living
Death
Envied
Men
Protects
Feeds
Rests
Envy
Honor

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Envy, slothful vice, Never makes its way in lofty characters, But, like the skulking viper, creeps and crawls Close to the ground.
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Take rest a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop
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Love's dominion, like a kings, admits of no partition.
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A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry (double graced) Within a lily? Centre placed? Or ever marked the pretty beam, A strawberry shows, half drowned in cream? Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl, and orient too? So like to this, nay all the rest, Is each neat niplet of her breast.
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The glow of inspiration warms us this holy rapture springs from the seeds of the Divine mind sown in man.
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Fair peace becomes men ferocious anger belongs to beasts. [Lat., Candida pax homines, trux decet ira feras.]
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In an easy cause anyone can be eloquent the slightest strength is enough to break what is already shattered.
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A frail gift is beauty, which grows less as time draws on, and is devoured by its own years.
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Courage conquers all things: it even gives strength to the body.
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Whether you call my heart affectionate, or you call it womanish: I confess, that to my misfortune, it is soft.
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Nor is there any law more just, than that he who has plotted death shall perish by his own plot.
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The lamp burns bright when wick and oil are clean.
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Ah me! love can not be cured by herbs. [Lat., Hei mihi! quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis.]
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Let the poor man mind his tongue
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Envy, the meanest of vices, creeps on the ground like a serpent.
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All things change, nothing is extinguished. There is nothing in the whole world which is permanent. Everything flows onward all things are brought into being with a changing nature the ages themselves glide by in constant movement.
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God himself favors the brave.
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Heavens! what thick darkness pervades the minds of men. [Lat., Pro superi! quantum mortalia pectora caecae, Noctis habent.]
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Thou fool, what is sleep but the image of death? Fate will give an eternal rest. [Lat., Stulte, quid est somnus, gelidae nisi mortis imago? Longa quiescendi tempora fata dabunt.]
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The more they drink the more they thirst.
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