Let each man have the wit to go his own way.

Love presses my head with carefully placed feet, wretch that he is, until he has taught me to detest chaste girls, and to live with no counsel.

And nobility will not be able to help you with your love; Love does not know how to cede to ancestral images.

That death is best which comes appropriately at a ripe age.

No rival will steal away my sure love; that glory will be my gray hair.

Make room, Roman writers, make room for Greek writers; something greater than the Iliad is born.

In love, a verse of Mimnermus has more power than one of Homer.