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Man loves malice, but not against one-eyed men nor the unfortunate, but against the fortunate and proud.

Martial

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Martial
Eyed
Malice
Unfortunate
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Men

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He truly sorrows who sorrows unseen.
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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.
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Service cannot be expected from a friend in service let him be a freeman who wishes to be my master.
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Those they praise, but they read the others.
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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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A good man enlarges the term of his own existence.
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It is feeling and force of imagination that make us eloquent.
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It is to live twice when we can enjoy the recollections of our former life.
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You complain, friend Swift, of the length of my epigrams, but you yourself write nothing. Yours are shorter.
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What quick wit is found in sudden straits!
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The shameless Chloe placed on the tombs of her seven husbands the inscription, The work of Chloe. How could she have expressed herself more plainly?
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While you cannot resolve what you are, at last you may be nothing.
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A good man doubles the length of his existence to have lived so as to look back with pleasure on our past existence is to live twice.
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However great the dish that holds the turbot, the turbot is still greater than the dish.
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Life consists not merely in existing, but in enjoying health.
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A fisherman's walk: three steps and overboard.
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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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Non est, crede mihi, sapientis dicere 'Vivam': Sera nimis vita est crastina: vive hodie. Believe me, wise men don't say 'I shall live to do that', tomorrow's life is too late live today. Variant translation: Tomorrow will I live, the fool does say Today itself's too late the wise lived yesterday.
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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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I'm what I seem not any dyer gave, But nature dyed this colour that I have.
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