Your seventh wife, Phileros, is now being buried in your field. No man's field brings him greater profit than yours, Phileros.

While an ant was wandering under the shade of the tree of Phaeton, a drop of amber enveloped the tiny insect; thus she, who in life was disregarded, became precious by death.

He who writes distichs, wishes, I suppose, to please by brevity. But, tell me, of what avail is their brevity, when there is a whose book full of them?

It is not he who forms idols in gold or marble that makes them gods, but he who kneels before them.

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

Wine and women bring misery.

Tomorrow's life is too late. Live today.