Lycoris has buried all the female friends she had, Fabianus:
would she were the friend of my wife!

Lycoris has buried all the female friends she had, Fabianus:
would she were the friend of my wife!

Unlike my subject, I will make my song.
It shall be witty, and it shan't be long.

Unlike my subject, I will make my song.
It shall be witty, and it shan't be long.

Acon his right, Leonilla her left eye
Doth want; yet each in form, the gods out-vie.
Sweet read more

Acon his right, Leonilla her left eye
Doth want; yet each in form, the gods out-vie.
Sweet boy, with thine, thy sister's sight improved:
So shall she Venus be, thou God of Love.
[Lat., Lumine Acon dextre,--capta est Leonilla sinistre,
Et potis est forma vincere uterque dees:
Blande puer, lumen quod habes concede sorori,
Sic tu caecus Amor, sic erit illa Venus.]

In whatever place you meet me, Postumus, you cry out immediately,
and your very first words are, "How do read more

In whatever place you meet me, Postumus, you cry out immediately,
and your very first words are, "How do you do?" You say this,
even if you meet me ten times in one single hour: you, Postumus,
have nothing, I suppose, to do.

You ask for lively epigrams, and propose lifeless subjects. What
can I do, Caecilianus? You expect Hyblaen or Hymethian read more

You ask for lively epigrams, and propose lifeless subjects. What
can I do, Caecilianus? You expect Hyblaen or Hymethian honey to
be produced, and yet offer the Attic bee nothing but Corsican
thyme?

You put fine dishes on your table, Olus, but you always put them
on covered. This is ridiculous; in read more

You put fine dishes on your table, Olus, but you always put them
on covered. This is ridiculous; in the same way I could put fine
dished on my table.

Some learned writers . . . have compared a Scorpion to an Epigram
. . . because as the read more

Some learned writers . . . have compared a Scorpion to an Epigram
. . . because as the sting of the Scorpion lyeth in the tayl, so
the force and virtue of an epigram is in the conclusion.

The book which you are reading aloud is mine, Fidentinus; but,
while you read it so badly, it begins read more

The book which you are reading aloud is mine, Fidentinus; but,
while you read it so badly, it begins to be yours.

Thou art so witty, profligate and thin,
At once we think thee Satan, Death and Sin.

Thou art so witty, profligate and thin,
At once we think thee Satan, Death and Sin.