Chorus of women: [...] Oh! my good, gallant Lysistrata, and all my friends, be ever like a bundle of nettles; never let you anger slacken; the wind of fortune blown our way.

If you strike upon a thought that baffles you, break off from that entanglement and try another, so shall your wits be fresh to start again.

A man's homeland is wherever he prospers.

Quickly, bring me a beaker of wine, so that I may wet my mind and say something clever.

Shall I crack any of those old jokes, master, At which the audience never fail to laugh?

Hunger knows no friend but its feeder.

Your lost friends are not dead, but gone before, advanced a stage or two upon that road which you must travel in the steps they trod.