There is a fault common to all singers. When they're among friends and are asked to sing they don't want to, and when they're not asked to sing they never stop.
What will this boaster produce worthy of this mouthing? The mountains are in labor; a ridiculous mouse will be born.
[Lat., Quid dignum tanto feret hic promissor hiatu?
Parturiunt montes; nascetur ridiculus mus.]
Cease to inquire what the future has in store, and to take as a gift whatever the day brings forth.
[Lat., Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere: et
Quem Fors dierum cunque dabit, lucro
Appone.]