“You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.”

Life consists not merely in existing, but in enjoying health.

It is folly to waste labour about trifles.

You give me nothing during your life, but you promise to provide for me at your death. If you are not a fool, you know what I wish for!

What’s a wretched man? A man whom no man pleases.

You are so pure in mind and heart, In aspect, too, so mild, I wonder that you ever could Implant your wife with child.

Whoever is not too wise is wise.

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

Epigrams need no crier, but are content with their own tongue.

If I remember right, Aelia, you had four teeth; a cough displaced two, another two more. You can now cough without anxiety all the day long. A third cough can find nothing to do in your mouth.

I wont let a wife lead me to the altar.

I believe that man to be wretched whom none can please.

Why do strong arms fatigue themselves with frivolous dumbbells? To dig a vineyard is worthier exercise for men.

Your page stands against you and says to you that you are a thief.

One genius has made many clever artists.

The African lions rush to attack bulls; they do not attack butterflies.

I know all that better than my own name.

I don’t know that there’s any particular scientific evidence that you could say, more guys get hurt in this offense versus that one, or hurry-up, or whatever, but everything that we’ve ever done in the NCAA is about exposure. How many exposures does a player get?

In folk music, I’ve always been fond of the fragment. The song that has one verse. And you don’t know anything about the characters, you don’t know what they’re doing, but they’re doing something important. I love that. I’m really a sucker for that kind of song.

Paul spoke about the root of faith (Eph 2:8). James spoke about the fruit of faith (Jm 2:17-18).

For fools admire and love those things they see hidden in verses turned all upside down, and take for truth what sweetly strokes the ears and comes with sound of phrases fine imbued.

So how can a poet-an intelligent, serious poet-write mystical verse now?

Once a poet calls his myth a myth, he prevents the reader from treating it as a reality; we use the word “myth” only for stories we ourselves cannot believe.

Verse 11. (They presented unto Him gifts). The people of the east never approach the presence of kings and great personages, without a present in their hands.

Everything that’s prose isn’t verse and everything that isn’t verse is prose. Now you see what it is to be a scholar!