You are sad in the midst of every blessing. Take care that Fortune does not observe--or she will call you ungrateful.
Gifts are like hooks.
To the ashes of the dead glory comes too late.
To have nothing is not poverty. [Lat., Non est paupertas, Nestor, habere nihil.]
She grieves sincerely who grieves unseen.
You admire, Vacerra, only the poets of old and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, if I think death too high a price to pay for your praise.
Neither fear your death's day nor long for it.
Do you ask why I am unwilling to marry a rich wife? It is because I am unwilling to be taken to husband by my wife. The mistress of the house should be subordinate to her husband, for in no other way, Priscus, will the wife and husband be on an equality.
Joys do not stay, but take wing and fly away.
Some are good, some are middling, the most are bad.
Nothing is more ill-timed than an ill-timed laugh.
Whoever is not too wise is wise. [Lat., Quisquis plus justo non sapit, ille sapit.]
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.
From no place can you exclude the fates. [Lat., Nullo fata loco possis excludere.]
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.
I do not hate the man, but his vices.
Make it a point not to be over-fascinating.
You should not fear, nor yet should you wish for your last day.
Those they praise, but they read the others.
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.
In adversity it is easy to despise life; he is truly brave who can endure a wretched life. [Lat., Rebus in angustis facile est contemnere vitam; Fortiter ille facit qui miser esse potest.]
Do you ask what sort of a maid I desire or dislike, Flaccus? I dislike one too easy and one too coy. The just mean, which lies between the two extremes, is what I approve; I like neither that which tortures nor that which cloys.
You puff the poets of other days, The living you deplore. Spare me the accolade: your praise Is not worth dying for.
What's a wretched man? A man whom no man pleases.
Too late is tomorrow's life; live for today.
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