If a man rejoice not in his drinking, he is mad; for in drinking it's possible ... to fondle breasts, and to caress well tended locks, and there is dancing withal, and oblivion of woe.

To an old father, nothing is more sweet than a daughter. Boys are more spirited, but their ways are not so tender.

When good men die their goodness does not perish.

Enjoy yourself, drink, call the life you live today your own; but only that, the rest belongs to chance.

To die with glory, if one has to die at all, is still, I think, pain for the dier.

Do we, holding that the gods exist, deceive ourselves with insubstantial dreams and lies, while random careless chance and change alone control the world?

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