“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.”

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?

It is as good as second life to be able to look back upon our past life with pleasure.

Some things are good, some middling, more bad.

It is not, believe me, the act of a wise man to say, “I will live.” To-morrow’s life is too late; live to-day.

To the ashes of the dead glory comes too late.

Glory comes too late when we are nought but ashes.

You’ll get no laurel crown for outrunning a burrow.

The shameless Chloe placed on the tombs of her seven husbands the inscription, “The work of Chloe.” How could she have expressed herself more plainly?

Conceal a flaw, and the world will imagine the worst.

There is no living with thee, nor without thee.

The present joys of life we doubly taste, By looking back with pleasure to the past.