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

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

You importune me, Tucca, to present you with my books. I shall not do so; for you want to sell, not to read, them.

Be content to be what you are, and prefer nothing to it, and do not fear or wish for your last day.

While you remain at home your hair is at the hairdresser's; you take out your teeth at night and sleep tucked away in a hundred cosmetics boxes - even your face does not sleep with you.

Spare the person but lash the vice.

Be cheerful, if you are wise.