Birdes of a feather will flocke togither.

He who weighs his burdens, can bear them.

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

Rarity gives a charm; so early fruits and winter roses are the most prized; and coyness sets off an extravagant mistress, while the door always open tempts no suitor.

No hero to me is the man who, by easy shedding of his blood, purchases fame: my hero is he who, without death, can win praise.

All your female friends are either old or ugly; nay, more ugly than old women usually are. These you lead about in your train, and drag with you to feasts, porticos and theaters. Thus, Fabulla, you seem handsome, thus you seem young.

There is no glory in otustripping donkeys.