Glory comes too late when we are nought but ashes.

Some are good, some are middling, the most are bad.

Gifts are like fish-hooks; for who is not aware that the greedy char is deceived by the fly which he swallows?

You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.

You give me nothing during your life, but you promise to provide for me at your death. If you are not a fool, you know what I wish for!

When your crowd of attendants so loudly applaud you, Pomponius, it is not you, but your banquet, that is eloquent.

Do you ask what sort of a maid I desire or dislike, Flaccus? I dislike one too easy and one too coy. The just mean, which lies between the two extremes, is what I approve; I like neither that which tortures nor that which cloys.