But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid.

Sweet words are like honey, a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.

That when we live no more, We may live ever

My age I will not once lament, / But sing, my time so near is spent.

I happy am, if well with you.

Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are.

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.