Number of quotes found: 49
- love
- nature
- things
- everything
- nothing
- believe
- one
- let
- mind
- man
- many
- time
- soul
- belief
- world
- happy
- becomes
- whose
- way
- always
- times
- human
- us
- best
- pain
- stronger
- enemies
- night
- comes
- peace
- learn
- boy
- well
- perishes
- thing
- youth
- makes
- long
- like
- never
- even
- words
- strength
- changes
- less
- loved
- woman
- either
- whole
- together
- expect
- elements
- chance
- spun
- poetry
- fine
- named
- warring
- cost
- covering
Many women long for what eludes them, and like not what is offered them.
Source: Ars Amatoria - The Art of Love
All right, boy, skewer me. I’ve dropped my defenses,
I’m an easy victim. Why, by now
Your arrows practically know their own way to the target
And feel less at home in their quiver than in me.
Source: Ars Amatoria - The Art of Love
Ere land and sea and the all-covering sky
Were made, in the whole world the countenance
Of nature was the same, all one, well named
Chaos, a raw and undivided mass,
Naught but a lifeless bulk, with warring seeds
Of ill-joined elements compressed together.
Source: Metamorphoses - Transformations
Let others praise ancient times; I am glad I was born in these.
Source: Ars Amatoria - The Art of Love
Everything changes; nothing dies: The spirit wanders here, wanders there, enters anyone’s body, passes from beasts to human beings and back to beasts again, but never perishes.
Source: Metamorphoses - Transformations
Blemishes are hid by night and every fault forgiven; darkness makes any woman fair.
Source: Ars Amatoria - The Art of Love
All things change, nothing is extinguished. . . . There is nothing in the whole world which is permanent. Everything flows onward; all things are brought into being with a changing nature; the ages themselves glide by in constant movement.
Source: Metamorphoses - Transformations
Look at the four-spaced year
That imitates four seasons of our lives;
First Spring, that delicate season, bright with flowers,
Quickening, yet shy, and like a milk-fed child,
Its way unsteady while the countryman
Delights in promise of another year.
Green meadows wake to bloom, frail shoots and grasses,
And then Spring turns to Summer’s hardiness,
The boy to manhood. There’s no time of year
Of greater richness, warmth, and love of living,
New strength untried. And after Summer, Autumn,
First flushes gone, the temperate season here
Midway between quick youth and growing age,
And grey hair glinting when the head turns toward us,
Then senile Winter, bald or with white hair,
Terror in palsy as he walks alone.
Source: Metamorphoses - Transformations




