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?
Hidden evils are most dreaded.
Genuine is the sorrow endured without anyone else knowing about it.
Fortune gives too much to many, enough to none.
I do not hate the man, but his vices.
That which prevents disagreeable flies from feeding on your repast, was once the proud tail of a splendid bird.