“My poems are naughty, but my life is pure.”

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.

A vagrant is everywhere at home.

He who weighs his burdens, can bear them.

Neither fear your death’s day nor long for it.

Remember, cobbler, to keep to your leather.

Every bird that upwards swings Bears the Cross upon its wings.

I do not like the man who squanders life for fame; give me the man who living makes a name.

I have granted you much that you asked: and yet you never cease to ask of me. He who refuses nothing, Atticilla, will soon have nothing to refuse.

A cook should double one sense have: for he Should taster for himself and master be.

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

If fame comes after death, I’m in no hurry for it.

Gifts are like hooks.

Make it a point not to be over-fascinating.

I seem to you cruel and too much addicted to gluttony, when I beat my cook for sending up a bad dinner. If that appears to you too trifling a cause, say for what cause you would have a cook flogged.

Nothing is more ill-timed than an ill-timed laugh.

A jar of wine so priceless did not deserve to die. and Never think of leaving perfume or wines to your heir. Administer these youself and let him have the money.