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Can the fish love the fisherman? [Lat., Piscatorem piscis amare potest?]

Martial

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Martial
Fisherman
Fish
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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 not too thick with anybody your joys will be fewer, and so will pains.
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It is feeling and force of imagination that make us eloquent.
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The African lions rush to attack bulls they do not attack butterflies. [Lat., In tauros Libyci ruunt leones Non sunt papilionibus molesti.]
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I do not like the man who squanders life for fame give me the man who living makes a name. [Lat., Nolo virum facili redimit qui sanquine famam Hunc volo laudari qui sine morte potest.]
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It is as good as second life to be able to look back upon our past life with pleasure
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Why do strong arms fatigue themselves with frivolous dumbbells? To dig a vineyard is worthier exercise for men.
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Gifts are like hooks.
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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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There is nothing more contemptible than a bald man who pretends to have hair.
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There is no living with thee, nor without thee.
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I seem to you cruel and too much addicted to gluttony, when I beat my cook for sending up a bad dinner. If that appears to you too trifling a cause, say for what cause you would have a cook flogged.
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When your crowd of attendants so loudly applaud you, Pomponius, it is not you, but your banquet, that is eloquent.
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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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While an ant was wandering under the shade of the tree of Phaeton, a drop of amber enveloped the tiny insect thus she, who in life was disregarded, became precious by death.
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A cook should double one sense have: for he Should taster for himself and master be.
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You admire, Vacerra, only the poets of old and praise only those who are dead. Pardon me, I beseech you, Vacerra, if I think death too high a price to pay for your praise.
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If fame comes after death, I'm in no hurry for it. [Lat., Si post fata venit gloria non propero.]
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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.
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I believe that man to be wretched whom none can please.
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