You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.

When your crowd of attendants so loudly applaud you, Pomponius, it is not you, but your banquet, that is eloquent.

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

There is nothing more contemptible than a bald man who pretends to have hair.

Birdes of a feather will flocke togither.

To the ashes of the dead glory comes too late.

It is not he who forms idols in gold or marble that makes them gods, but he who kneels before them.