Every bird that upwards swings Bears the Cross upon its wings.
For wealth's now given to none but to the rich.
He truly sorrows who sorrows unseen.
I have granted you much that you asked: and yet you never cease to ask of me. He who refuses nothing, Atticilla, will soon have nothing to refuse.
Hidden evils are most dreaded.
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?