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?

Joys do not stay, but take wing and fly away.

Glory comes too late when we are nought but ashes.

Neither fear your death's day nor long for it.

Wine and women bring misery.

You crystal break, for fear of breaking it: Careless and careful hands like faults commit.

Some are good, some are middling, the most are bad.