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?

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

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

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

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

The shameless Chloe placed on the tombs of her seven husbands the inscription, "The work of Chloe." How could she have expressed herself more plainly?

There is no living with thee, nor without thee.