A poet’s fiction should at least be plausible.

To little men, gods send little things.

Nothing unattested do I sing.

A big book is a big misfortune.

I abhor, too, the roaming lover, nor do I drink from every well; I loathe all things in common.

Here sleeps Saon, of Acanthus, son of Dicon, a holy sleep: say not that the good die.

Two goddesses now must Cyprus adore; The Muses are ten, and the Graces are four; Stella’s wit is so charming, so sweet her fair face, She shines a new Venus, a Muse, and a Grace.

A great book is like great evil.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.