You may see me, fat and shining, with well-cared-for hide, . . . a hog from Epicurus's herd.[706:6]
Satires, ii. 4, 15.
What the discordant harmony of circumstances would and could effect.[706:7]
Epistles, i. 12, 19.
If you wish me to weep, you yourself must feel grief.[706:8]
Ars Poetica. 102.
The mountains will be in labour; an absurd mouse will be born.[706:9]
Ars Poetica. 139.
Even the worthy Homer sometimes nods.[706:10]
Ars Poetica. 359.