“Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that’s how a book of poems is made, my Friend.”

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.

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.