While an ant was wandering under the shade of the tree of Phaeton, a drop of amber enveloped the tiny insect; thus she, who in life was disregarded, became precious by death.

Be not too thick with anybody; your joys will be fewer, and so will pains.

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.

Life is not merely to be alive, but to be well.

Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that's how a book of poems is made, my Friend.

Every epigram should resemble a bee; it should have sting, honey, and brevity.