Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that's how a book of poems is made, my Friend.

You crystal break, for fear of breaking it: Careless and careful hands like faults commit.

I have not hated the man, but his faults.

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

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

While you cannot resolve what you are, at last you may be nothing.

Be merry if you are wise.