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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.
Neither fear your death's day nor long for it.
What's a wretched man? A man whom no man pleases.
Virtue extends our days: he lives two lives who relives his past with pleasure.
Tomorrow's life is too late. Live today.
Stop abusing my verses, or publish some of your own.
The bee is enclosed, and shines preserved in amber, so that it seems enshrined in its own nectar.
If pale beans bubble for you in a red earthenware pot You can oft decline the dinners of sumptuous hosts.
You'll get no laurel crown for outrunning a burrow.
