“You give me nothing during your life, but you promise to provide for me at your death. If you are not a fool, you know what I wish for!”

Joys do not stay, but take wing and fly away.

Spare the person but lash the vice.

I’m what I seem; not any dyer gave, But nature dyed this colour that I have.

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

Can the fish love the fisherman?

Tis easy to write epigrams nicely, but to write a book is hard.

For wealth’s now given to none but to the rich.

Red-haired, black-lipped, club-footed, and blink-eyed; if you’re a good man, you’re a wonder!

Why do I not kiss you, Philaenis? you are bald. Why do I not kiss you, Philaenis? you are carrotty. Why do I not kiss you, Philaenis? you are one-eyed. He who kisses you, Philaenis, sins against nature.

The virtuous man is never a novice in worldly things.

She grieves sincerely who grieves unseen.

You crystal break, for fear of breaking it: Careless and careful hands like faults commit.

You’re obstinate, pliant, merry, morose, all at once. For me there’s no living with you, or without you.

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.

Man loves malice, but not against one-eyed men nor the unfortunate, but against the fortunate and proud.

Gifts are like fish-hooks; for who is not aware that the greedy char is deceived by the fly which he swallows?