“He who writes distichs, wishes, I suppose, to please by brevity. But, tell me, of what avail is their brevity, when there is a whose book full of them?”

This I ask, is it not madness to kill thyself in order to escape death?

Life is not living, but living in health.

You ask what a nice girl will do? She won’t give an inch, but she won’t say no.

Genuine is the sorrow endured without anyone else knowing about it.

Birds of a feather will flock together.

Tomorrow’s life is too late. Live today.

Some are good, some are middling, the most are bad.

Too late is tomorrow’s life; live for today.

Be cheerful, if you are wise.

Be content to be what you are, and prefer nothing to it, and do not fear or wish for your last day.

You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.

No man is quick enough to enjoy life.

In adversity it is easy to despise life; he is truly brave who can endure a wreched life.

Hidden evils are most dreaded.

Your seventh wife, Phileros, is now being buried in your field. No man’s field brings him greater profit than yours, Phileros.

While you cannot resolve what you are, at last you may be nothing.