You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.
He writes nothing whose writings are not read.
You ask what a nice girl will do? She won't give an inch, but she won't say no.
Man loves malice, but not against one-eyed men nor the unfortunate, but against the fortunate and proud.
Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that's how a book of poems is made, my Friend.
Make it a point not to be over-fascinating.