He writes nothing whose writings are not read.
Gifts are like fish-hooks; for who is not aware that the greedy char is deceived by the fly which he swallows?
No hero to me is the man who, by easy shedding of his blood, purchases fame: my hero is he who, without death, can win praise.
It is folly to waste labour about trifles.
It is to live twice when we can enjoy the recollections of our former life.
You admire, Vacerra, only the poets of old and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, if I think death too high a price to pay for your praise.