Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that's how a book of poems is made, my Friend.
Your page stands against you and says to you that you are a thief.
To be able to enjoy one's past life is to live twice.
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?
Be cheerful, if you are wise.
What quick wit is found in sudden straits!