Wine and women bring misery.

I do not hate the man, but his vices.

You importune me, Tucca, to present you with my books. I shall not do so; for you want to sell, not to read, them.

I have not hated the man, but his faults.

It is feeling and force of imagination that make us eloquent.

There is no glory in otustripping donkeys.

You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.