Wine and women bring misery.
Glory comes too late when we are nought but ashes.
See, how the liver is swollen larger than a fat goose! In amazement you will exclaim: Where could this possibly grow?
What quick wit is found in sudden straits!
You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.
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?