Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more.
Oh, this age! How tasteless and ill bred it is!
We see not our own backs.
For the godly poet must be chaste himself, but there is no need for his verses to be so.
Stop wishing to merit anyone's gratitude or thinking that anyone can become grateful.
My mind's sunk so low, Claudia, because of you, wrecked itself on your account so bad already, that I couldn't like you if you were the best of women, -or stop loving you, no matter what you do.