When your crowd of attendants so loudly applaud you, Pomponius, it is not you, but your banquet, that is eloquent.

Man loves malice, but not against one-eyed men nor the unfortunate, but against the fortunate and proud.

The swan murmurs sweet strains with a flattering tongue, itself the singer of its own dirge.

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

Joys do not stay, but take wing and fly away.

Glory comes too late when we are nought but ashes.

There is no living with thee, nor without thee.