O Charidas, what of the under world? Great darkness. And what of the resurrection? A lie. And Pluto? A fable; we perish utterly.
A great book is like great evil.
More lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.
A good man never dies.
To little men, gods send little things.
I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.