I am a shell-fish just come from being saturated with the waters of the Lucrine lake, near Baiae; but now I luxuriously thrust for noble pickle.
Our days pass by, and are scored against us.
For life is only life when blessed with health.
Birdes of a feather will flocke togither.
You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.
If fame is to come only after death, I am in no hurry for it.