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

You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.

Wine and women bring misery.

Those they praise, but they read the others.

It is feeling and force of imagination that make us eloquent.

Gifts are like hooks.

He writes nothing whose writings are not read.