You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.
It is to live twice when we can enjoy the recollections of our former life.
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.
To the ashes of the dead glory comes too late.
However great the dish that holds the turbot, the turbot is still greater than the dish.
Wine and women bring misery.