Waste Not Fresh Tears Over Old Griefs.

The Fountains Of Sacred Rivers Flow Upwards (i.e., Everything Is Turned Topsy Turvy).

To A Father Growing Old Nothing Is Dearer Than A Daughter.

Sweet Is The Remembrance Of Troubles When You Are In Safety.

When One With Honeyed Words But Evil Mind Persuades The Mob, Great Woes Befall The State.

Delusive Hope Still Points To Distant Good.