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That you may please others you must be forgetful of yourself.

Ovid

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Ovid
Author
Elegist
Mythographer
Poet
Writer
Publius Ovidius Naso
P. Ovidius Naso
Please
Others
May
Must
People
Forgetful

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Beauty is a fragile gift.
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Rare is the virtue that's not ruled by Fortune, That stands unshaken even when Fortune flees.
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Envy, the meanest of vices, creeps on the ground like a serpent.
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Habit had made the custom.
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We covet what is guarded the very care invokes the thief. Few love what they may have.
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Art lies by its own artifice.
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If you have a voice, sing but if you have good arms, then go in for dancing.
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There is a certain pleasure in weeping grief finds in tears both a satisfaction and a cure.
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Change is always powerful. Let your hook be always cast. In the pool where you least expect it, will be a fish.
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You start in April and cross to the time of May One has you as it leaves, one as it comes Since the edges of these months are yours and defer To you, either of them suits your praises. The Circus continues and the theatre's lauded palm, Let this song, too, join the Circus spectacle.
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There is nothing in the whole world which abides. All things are in a state of ebb and flow, and every shadow passes away. Even time itself, like a river, is constantly gliding away .
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You will hardly conquer, but conquer you must. [Lat., Male vincetis, sed vincite.]
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God himself favors the brave.
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Giving calls for genius.
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The high-spirited man may indeed die, but he will not stoop to meanness. Fire, though it may be quenched, will not become cool.
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See that you promise: what harm is there in promise? In promises anyone can be rich.
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Face troubles from their birth, for 'tis too late to cure When long delay has given the evil strength. Haste then postpone not to the coming hour: tomorrow He'll be less ready who's not ready now.
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By looking at squinting people you learn to squint.
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The raven once in snowy plumes was drest, White as the whitest dove's unsullied breast, Fair as the guardian of the Capitol, Soft as the swan a large and lovely fowl His tongue, his prating tongue had changed him quite To sooty blackness from the purest white.
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It is the poor man who'll ever count his flock.
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