To whom do I dedicate this charming slim volume, just now polished with dry pumice stone? To you Cornelius, for you were accustomed to think that my scribblings were something. When already at the same time, you, only Italian, dared to explain the whole history in three scrolls, learned, by Jupiter, and weighty! Hence have [...]

You say that the rabbit isn’t cooked, and ask for the whip; Rufus, you prefer to carve up your cook than your rabbit.

Don’t seek, my friend, we cannot say what end’s in store for you, for me: don’t trust in vague astrology. Better to shoulder what will be, whether you soon will die, or stay to watch the shore exhaust the sea. So drink some wine while your hours flee, put small trust in posterity, and prune [...]

I am not really keen to wish to please you, Caesar, Nor to know whether you are black or white.

I felt a little ill and called Dr. Symmachus. But you came with 100 medical students. One hundred ice-cold hands poked and jabbed me. I didn’t have a fever, Symmachus, when I called you, but now I do.

The woman I love says there is no one she would rather marry than me, not if Jupiter himself asked her to do so. She says… but what a woman says tho her beloved this ought to be written in wind and running water.

You shun me like a fawn that’s seeking through trackless hills her mother peeking,       ill with fear of the woods and breeze; When pliant leaves the spring winds rustle or lizards through the bushes bustle       she trembles in her heart and knees. But not I like the tiger savage or wild lion seek to ravage: [...]

You will dine well at my house, my Fabullus, in a few days (if the gods favor you), and if you bring with you a great and good dinner, not without a pretty girl and wine and wit and laughs for all. I say: if you bring these, our charming one, you will dine well—for [...]

It’s better to live, Licinius, neither always pressing out on the deep nor, trembling and cautious, hugging overly close to the    dangerous shoreline. Whosoever cherishes the golden mean safely avoids the squalor of a hovel and discreetly keeps away from a palace    that excites envy. Most often it’s the huge pine that is shaken by [...]

Why don’t I send you my books? Pontilianus, lest you send me yours.