Epigrams need no crier, but are content with their own tongue.
No hero to me is the man who, by easy shedding of his blood, purchases fame: my hero is he who, without death, can win praise.
Wine and women bring misery.
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?
She grieves sincerely who grieves unseen.
What quick wit is found in sudden straits!