Frag. 146 (trans. by Plumptre).
O Death the Healer, scorn thou not, I pray,
To come to me: of cureless ills thou art
The one physician. Pain lays not its touch
Upon a corpse.
Frag. 250 (trans. by Plumptre).
A prosperous fool is a grievous burden.
Frag. 383.
Bronze is the mirror of the form; wine, of the heart.
Frag. 384.