A good man enlarges the term of his own existence.

You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.

I do not hate the man, but his vices.

Gifts are like fish-hooks; for who is not aware that the greedy char is deceived by the fly which he swallows?

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?

Some are good, some are middling, the most are bad.

Be cheerful, if you are wise.