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

The flaw which is hidden is deemed greater than it is.

Gifts are like fish-hooks; for who is not aware that the greedy char is deceived by the fly which he swallows?

She grieves sincerely who grieves unseen.

You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.

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

While an ant was wandering under the shade of the tree of Phaeton, a drop of amber enveloped the tiny insect; thus she, who in life was disregarded, became precious by death.