The face that cannot smile is never fair.
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?
Glory comes too late when we are nought but ashes.
Man loves malice, but not against one-eyed men nor the unfortunate, but against the fortunate and proud.
There is no living with thee, nor without thee.
He writes nothing whose writings are not read.