Fortune gives too much to many, enough to none.
I do not love thee, Sabidius, nor can I say why; I can only say this, "I do not love thee."
I do not hate the man, but his vices.
You may envy every one, but no one envies you.
Do you ask what sort of a maid I desire or dislike, Flaccus? I dislike one too easy and one too coy. The just mean, which lies between the two extremes, is what I approve; I like neither that which tortures nor that which cloys.
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.