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.

Service cannot be expected from a friend in service; let him be a freeman who wishes to be my master.

You'll get no laurel crown for outrunning a burrow.

Genuine is the sorrow endured without anyone else knowing about it.

Life consists not merely in existing, but in enjoying health.

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

He who weighs his burdens, can bear them.