Power gives no purchase to the hand, it will not hold, soon perishes, and greatness goes.

How sweet to remember the trouble that is past.

Why do we make so much of knowledge, struggle so hard to get some little skill not worth the effort?

Arm yourself, my heart: the thing that you must do is fearful, yet inevitable.

The mob gets out of hand, runs wild, worse than raging fire, while the man who stands apart is called a coward.

Mobs in their emotions are much like children, subject to the same tantrums and fits of fury.

What greater pain could mortals have than this: To see their children dead before their eyes?