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.

If you want him to mourn, you had best leave him nothing.

A fisherman's walk: three steps and overboard.

Too late is tomorrow's life; live for today.

Birdes of a feather will flocke togither.

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

That which prevents disagreeable flies from feeding on your repast, was once the proud tail of a splendid bird.