When your crowd of attendants so loudly applaud you, Pomponius, it is not you, but your banquet, that is eloquent.
Such are thou and I: but what I am thou canst not be; what thou art any one of the multitude may be.
I do not love thee, Sabidius, nor can I say why; I can only say this, "I do not love thee."
Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that's how a book of poems is made, my Friend.
To be able to enjoy one's past life is to live twice.
The bee is enclosed, and shines preserved in amber, so that it seems enshrined in its own nectar.