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No hero to me is the man who, by easy shedding of his blood, purchases fame: my hero is he who, without death, can win praise.

Martial

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Martial
Fame
Hero
Blood
Winning
Purchases
Easy
Shedding
Death
Heroism
Without
Men
Praise

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However great the dish that holds the turbot, the turbot is still greater than the dish.
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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.
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I commend you, Postumus, for kissing me with only half your lip you may, however, if you please, withhold even the half of this half. Are you inclined to grant me a boon still greater, and even inexpressible? Keep this whole half entirely to yourself, Postumus.
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Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that's how a book of poems is made, my Friend.
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Laugh, if thou art wise.
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You praise, in three hundred verses, Sabellus, the baths of Ponticus, who gives such excellent dinners. You wish to dine, Sabellus, not to bathe.
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Be content to be what you are, and prefer nothing to it, and do not fear or wish for your last day.
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If you have any shame, forbear to pluck the beard of a dead lion.
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I am a shell-fish just come from being saturated with the waters of the Lucrine lake, near Baiae but now I luxuriously thrust for noble pickle.
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I have not hated the man, but his faults.
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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.
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Some are good, some are middling, the most are bad.
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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.
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A cook should double one sense have: for he Should taster for himself and master be.
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The present joys of life we doubly taste, By looking back with pleasure to the past.
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Conceal a flaw, and the world will imagine the worst.
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Such are thou and I: but what I am thou canst not be what thou art any one of the multitude may be.
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Tis easy to write epigrams nicely, but to write a book is hard.
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He who prefers to give Linus the half of what he wishes to borrow, rather than to lend him the whole, prefers to lose only the half.
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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?
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