There Is In The Worst Of Fortune

The Gods Have Sent Medicines For The Venom Of Serpents, But There Is No Medicine For A Bad Woman. She Is More Noxious Than The Viper, Or Than Fire Itself.

It Was My Tongue That Swore; My Heart Is Unsworn.

Alas, How Right The Ancient Saying Is: We, Who Are Old, Are Nothing Else But Noise And Shape. Like Mimicries Of Dreams We Go, And Have No Wits, Although We Think Us Wise.

Cowards Do Not Count In Battle; They Are There, But Not In It.

The Brash Unbridled Tongue, The Lawless Folly Of Fools, Will End In Pain. But The Life Of Wise Content Is Blest With Quietness, Escapes The Storm And Keeps Its House Secure.