You may envy every one, but no one envies you.
You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.
Glory comes too late when we are nought but ashes.
Wine and women bring misery.
To be able to enjoy one's past life is to live twice.
He who writes distichs, wishes, I suppose, to please by brevity. But, tell me, of what avail is their brevity, when there is a whose book full of them?