The swan murmurs sweet strains with a flattering tongue, itself the singer of its own dirge.

Every bird that upwards swings Bears the Cross upon its wings.

When your crowd of attendants so loudly applaud you, Pomponius, it is not you, but your banquet, that is eloquent.

I do not love thee, Sabidius, nor can I say why; I can only say this, "I do not love thee."

See, how the liver is swollen larger than a fat goose! In amazement you will exclaim: Where could this possibly grow?

Some things are good, some middling, more bad.

If fame is to come only after death, I am in no hurry for it.