“Virtue extends our days: he lives two lives who relives his past with pleasure.”

Those they praise, but they read the others.

No amount of misfortune will satisfy the man who is not satisfied with reading a hundred epigrams.

If you are poor now, Aemilianus, you will always be poor. Riches are now given to none but the rich.

A good man enlarges the term of his own existence.

The bee is enclosed, and shines preserved in amber, so that it seems enshrined in its own nectar.

However great the dish that holds the turbot, the turbot is still greater than the dish.

Work divided is in that manner shortened.

He truly sorrows who sorrows unseen.

My poems are naughty, but my life is pure.

To-morrow I will live, the fool does say; To-day itself’s too late, the wise lived yesterday.

Every epigram should resemble a bee; it should have sting, honey, and brevity.

It is to live twice when we can enjoy the recollections of our former life.

I am a shell-fish just come from being saturated with the waters of the Lucrine lake, near Baiae; but now I luxuriously thrust for noble pickle.

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

Our days pass by, and are scored against us.

In adversity it is easy to despise life; he is truly brave who can endure a wretched life.

It’s the hour when night breaks away from the day, my dove, let me go.

We do not die because we have to die; we die because one day, and not so long ago, our consciousness was forced to deem it necessary.

I would imagine there are days when Superman wakes up, glances at his cape, and wonders when someone will come save him.

I thought [when I was 16] my days were just going to be spent hanging out on a beach and my girlfriend was going to be Miss Teen USA and my best friend will be a dolphin.

Once I came to acting, it was almost a thing where there weren’t enough hours in the day to work on stuff because I was so passionate about it.

You always take a little bit back with you at the end of the day. I always put a little bit of myself into the characters, too.

You don’t know what it is to stay a whole day with your head in your hands trying to squeeze your unfortunate brain so as to find a word.

His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away.