You importune me, Tucca, to present you with my books. I shall not do so; for you want to sell, not to read, them.
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?
You may envy every one, but no one envies you.
Joys do not stay, but take wing and fly away.
Life is not merely to be alive, but to be well.
I know all that better than my own name.