“To little men, gods send little things.”

You’re walking by the tomb of Battiades, Who knew well how to write poetry, and enjoy Laughter at the right moment, over the wine.

A good man never dies.

More lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.

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.

A great book is like great evil.

Nothing unattested do I sing.

Set a thief to catch a thief.

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.

O Charidas, what of the under world? Great darkness. And what of the resurrection? A lie. And Pluto? A fable; we perish utterly.

Big book, a big bore.

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

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.

You can’t achieve anything in life without a small amount of sacrifice.

When the little dog snarls, the big dog does not connect the snarl with himself, simply fancying that the little dog must be uncomfortable.

Imbeciles to be in great places, people of sense in small, and mankind generally unhappy. But the world as it stands is no narrow illusion, no phantasm, no evil dream of the night; we wake up to it, forever and ever; and we can neither forget it nor deny it nor dispense with it.

For a while, I could only wear sweat pants because I was that intermediate size that you’re not a small, you’re not a large.

I don’t have any special passion for politics, it being a never-ending merry-go-round of bosses big and small, all generally mediocre. I actually find it boring.

A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.

A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labours of a spasmodic Hercules.

Fern was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice. As a result, she now has a pig. A small one to be sure, but nevertheless a pig. It just shows what can happen if a person gets out of bed promptly.