There is nothing more contemptible than a bald man who pretends to have hair.

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?

What's a wretched man? A man whom no man pleases.

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

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

Rarity gives a charm; so early fruits and winter roses are the most prized; and coyness sets off an extravagant mistress, while the door always open tempts no suitor.

For wealth's now given to none but to the rich.