“No hero to me is the man who, by easy shedding of his blood, purchases fame: my hero is he who, without death, can win praise.”

You admire, Vacerra, only the poets of old and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, if I think death too high a price to pay for your praise.

See, how the liver is swollen larger than a fat goose! In amazement you will exclaim: Where could this possibly grow?

Live thy life as it were spoil and pluck the joys that fly.

He who writes distichs, wishes, I suppose, to please by brevity. But, tell me, of what avail is their brevity, when there is a whose book full of them?

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

Be satisfied, and pleased with what thou art, Act cheerfully and well thou allotted part; Enjoy the present hour, be thankful for the past, And neither fear, nor wish, the approaches of the last.

It is easy in adversity to despise death; he has real fortitude who dares to live and be wretched.

From no place can you exclude the fates.

Such are thou and I: but what I am thou canst not be; what thou art any one of the multitude may be.

If fame is to come only after death, I am in no hurry for it.

A man who lives everywhere lives nowhere.

You importune me, Tucca, to present you with my books. I shall not do so; for you want to sell, not to read, them.

Short is the life of those who possess great accomplishments, and seldom do they reach a good old age. Whatever thou lovest, pray that thou mayest not set too high a value on it.

There is nothing more contemptible than a bald man who pretends to have hair.

A vagrant is everywhere at home.

He who weighs his burdens, can bear them.