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

You puff the poets of other days, The living you deplore. Spare me the accolade: your praise Is not worth dying for.

The swan murmurs sweet strains with a flattering tongue, itself the singer of its own dirge.

You should not fear, nor yet should you wish for your last day.

All your female friends are either old or ugly; nay, more ugly than old women usually are. These you lead about in your train, and drag with you to feasts, porticos and theaters. Thus, Fabulla, you seem handsome, thus you seem young.

He writes nothing whose writings are not read.

Whoever makes great presents, expects great presents in return.

If my opinion is of any worth, the fieldfare is the greatest delicacy among birds, the hare among quadrupeds.

Your seventh wife, Phileros, is now being buried in your field. No man’s field brings him greater profit than yours, Phileros.

I know all that better than my own name.