Nothing is so difficult but that man will accomplish it.
It was a wine jar when the molding began: as the wheel runs round why does it turn out a water pitcher?
The jackdaw, stript of her stolen colours, provokes our laughter.
The covetous person is full of fear; and he or she who lives in fear will ever be a slave.
As many men as there are existing, so many are their different pursuits.
The covetous man is ever in want.
For, once begun, Your task is easy; half the work is done.
In giving advice I advise you, be short.
Pale death with an impartial foot knocks at the hovels of the poor and the palaces of king.
Let us both small and great push forward in this work, in this pursuit, if to our country, if to ourselves we would live dear.
The gods have given you wealth and the means of enjoying it.
Wine brings to light the hidden secrets of the soul, gives being to our hopes, bids the coward flight, drives dull care away, and teaches new means for the accomplishment of our wishes.
Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!
Posterity, thinned by the crime of its ancestors, shall hear of those battles.
The cask will long retain the flavour of the wine with which it was first seasoned.
A stomach that is seldom empty despises common food. [Lat., Jejunus raro stomachus vulgaria temnit.]
A poem is like a painting.
Boy, I loathe Persian luxury.
These trifles will lead to serious mischief. [Lat., Hae nugae seria ducent In mala.]
There are calumnies against which even innocence loses courage.
Who knows if the gods above will add tomorrow's span to this day's sum?
Where there are many beauties in a poem I shall not cavil at a few faults proceeding either from negligence or from the imperfection of our nature.
The horse would plough, the ox would drive the car. No; do the work you know, and tarry where you are.
Come boy, and pour for me a cup Of old Falernian. Fill it up With wine, strong, sparkling, bright, and clear; Our host decrees no water here. Let dullards drink the Nymph's pale brew, The sluggish thin their blood with dew. For such pale stuff we have no use; For us the purple grape's rich juice. Begone, ye chilling water sprite; Here burning Bacchus rules tonight! Catullus, Selections From Catullus No poems can live long or please that are written by water-drinkers.
We set up harsh and unkind rules against ourselves. No one is born without faults. That man is best who has fewest.
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