You admire, Vacerra, only the poets of old and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, if I think death too high a price to pay for your praise.
Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that's how a book of poems is made, my Friend.
Givers of great dinners know few enemies.
Joys do not stay, but take wing and fly away.
What quick wit is found in sudden straits!
Why do strong arms fatigue themselves with frivolous dumbbells? To dig a vineyard is worthier exercise for men.