I commend you, Postumus, for kissing me with only half your lip; you may, however, if you please, withhold even the half of this half. Are you inclined to grant me a boon still greater, and even inexpressible? Keep this whole half entirely to yourself, Postumus.

Those they praise, but they read the others.

Be content to be what you are, and prefer nothing to it, and do not fear or wish for your last day.

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

She grieves sincerely who grieves unseen.

You may envy every one, but no one envies you.

You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.