You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.
MARTIALSome good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that’s how a book of poems is made, my Friend.
More Martial Quotes
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Gifts are like fish-hooks; for who is not aware that the greedy char is deceived by the fly which he swallows?
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I do not hate the man, but his vices.
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It is to live twice when we can enjoy the recollections of our former life.
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You ask what a nice girl will do? She won’t give an inch, but she won’t say no.
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Life consists not merely in existing, but in enjoying health.
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There is nothing more revolting than an old busybody.
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The bee is enclosed, and shines preserved in amber, so that it seems enshrined in its own nectar.
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A vagrant is everywhere at home.
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While an ant was wandering under the shade of the tree of Phaeton, a drop of amber enveloped the tiny insect; thus she, who in life was disregarded, became precious by death.
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Every bird that upwards swings Bears the Cross upon its wings.
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If my opinion is of any worth, the fieldfare is the greatest delicacy among birds, the hare among quadrupeds.
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To-morrow I will live, the fool does say; To-day itself’s too late, the wise lived yesterday.
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Some things are good, some middling, more bad.
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Red-haired, black-lipped, club-footed, and blink-eyed; if you’re a good man, you’re a wonder!
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Glory comes too late when we are nought but ashes.
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No amount of misfortune will satisfy the man who is not satisfied with reading a hundred epigrams.
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Rarity gives a charm; so early fruits and winter roses are the most prized; and coyness sets off an extravagant mistress, while the door always open tempts no suitor.
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A fisherman’s walk: three steps and overboard.
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That which prevents disagreeable flies from feeding on your repast, was once the proud tail of a splendid bird.
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If you are poor now, Aemilianus, you will always be poor. Riches are now given to none but the rich.
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Make it a point not to be over-fascinating.
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Life’s not just about being alive, but being well.
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You puff the poets of other days, The living you deplore. Spare me the accolade: your praise Is not worth dying for.
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Whoever makes great presents, expects great presents in return.
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Those they praise, but they read the others.
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You crystal break, for fear of breaking it: Careless and careful hands like faults commit.
MARTIAL