Quote

It is the poor man who'll ever count his flock.

Ovid

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Ovid
Author
Elegist
Mythographer
Poet
Writer
Publius Ovidius Naso
P. Ovidius Naso
Flock
Flocks
Count
Poor
Money
Ever
Men

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Burdens become light when cheerfully borne.
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Rest strengthens the body, the mind too is thus supported but unremitting toil destroys both.
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Alas! How difficult it is to prevent the countenance from betraying guilt!
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Trivial losses often prove great gains.
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According to the state of a man's conscience, so do hope and fear on account of his deeds arise in his mind.
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One does not yearn for that which is easily acquired.
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There is a deity within us who breathes that divine fire by which we are animated.
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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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God gave man an upright countenance to survey the heavens, and to look upward to the stars.
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Nothing is so high and above all danger that is not below and in the power of God. [Lat., Nihil ita sublime est, supraque pericula tendit Non sit ut inferius suppositumque deo.]
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Love is a thing that is full of cares and fears.
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There is some joy in weeping. For our tears Fill up the cup, then wash our pain away.
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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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Forbear to lay the guilt of a few on the many.
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Skilled in every trick, a worthy heir of his paternal craft, he would make black look like white, and white look black. [Lat., Furtum ingeniosus ad omne, Qui facere assueret, patriae non degener artis, Candida de nigris, et de candentibus atra.]
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I have never injured anybody with a mordant poem my verse contains charges against nobody. Ingenuous, I have shunned wit steeped in venom--not a letter of mine is dipped in poisonous jest.
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The act is judged of by the event.
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When a rose dies, a thorn is left behind.
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We hate the hawk because he ever lives in battle.
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Jupiter from on high smiles at the perjuries of lovers.
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