To-morrow you will live, you always cry; In what fair country does this morrow lie, That 'tis so mighty long ere it arrive? Beyond the Indies does this morrow live? 'Tis so far-fetched, this morrow, that I fear 'Twill be both very old and very dear. "To-morrow I will live," the fool does say: To-day itself's too late;--the wise lived yesterday.
Whoever makes great presents, expects great presents in return.
You do not publish your own verse, Laelius; you criticize mine. Pray cease to criticize mine, or else publish your own.
You'll get no laurel crown for outrunning a burrow.
We know this to be all nonsense.
Why do I not kiss you, Philaenis? you are bald. Why do I not kiss you, Philaenis? you are carrotty. Why do I not kiss you, Philaenis? you are one-eyed. He who kisses you, Philaenis, sins against nature.
You give me back, Phoebus, my bond for four hundred thousand sesterces; lend me rather a hundred thousand more. Seek some one else to whom you may vaunt your empty present: what I cannot pay you, Phoebus, is my own.
Your page stands against you and says to you that you are a thief.
What quick wit is found in sudden straits!
Why do strong arms fatigue themselves with frivolous dumb-bells? To dig a vineyard is a worthier exercise for men.
You give me nothing during your life, but you promise to provide for me at your death. If you are not a fool, you know what you make me wish for.
Your seventh wife, Phileros, is now being buried in your field. No man's field brings him greater profit than yours, Phileros.
What's this that myrrh doth still smell in thy kiss, And that with thee no other odour is? 'Tis doubt, my Postumus, he that doth smell So sweetly always, smells not very well.
Why, simpleton, do you mix your verses with mine? What have you to do, foolish man, with writings that convict you of theft? Why do you attempt to associate foxes with lions, and make owls pass for eagles? Though you had one of Ladas's legs, you would not be able, blockhead, to run with the other leg of wood.
You importune me, Tucca, to present you with my books. I shall not do so; for you want to sell, not to read, them.
You're obstinate, pliant, merry, morose, all at once. For me there's no living with you, or without you.
When all the blandishments of life are gone the coward sneaks to death; the brave lives on.
Wine and women bring misery.
You invite no one except (someone) with whom you are bathed, Cotta and only baths provide guest(s) for you. I was wondering why you had never called me, Cotta: Now I know that nude me was displeasing to you.
When Fannius from his foe did fly Himself with his own hands he slew; Who e'er a greater madness knew? Life to destroy for fear to die.
Wish to be what you are, and wish for no other position.
You manufacture, with the aid of unguents, a false head of hair, and your bald and dirty skull is covered with dyed locks. There is no need to have a hairdresser for your head. A sponge, Phoebus, would do the business better.
When to secure your bald pate from the weather, You lately wore a cape of black neats' leather; He was a very wag, who to you said, "Why do you wear your slippers on your head?"