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.
A vagrant is everywhere at home.
It is folly to waste labour about trifles.
What quick wit is found in sudden straits!
The flaw which is hidden is deemed greater than it is.
You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.