Work divided is in that manner shortened.
Birdes of a feather will flocke togither.
I have granted you much that you asked: and yet you never cease to ask of me. He who refuses nothing, Atticilla, will soon have nothing to refuse.
If you have any shame, forbear to pluck the beard of a dead lion.
You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.
You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.