Your page stands against you and says to you that you are a thief.
Nothing is more ill-timed than an ill-timed laugh.
You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.
Epigrams need no crier, but are content with their own tongue.
I do not hate the man, but his vices.
Tis easy to write epigrams nicely, but to write a book is hard.