Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.

The other day, I was so desperate for a beer, I snuck into the football stadium and ate the dirt under the bleachers.

The wine urges me on, the bewitching wine, which sets even a wise man to singing and to laughing gently and rouses him up to dance and brings forth words which were better unspoken.

The natural thing, my lord, men and women joined.

The charity that is a trifle to us can be precious to others.

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

Goddess of song, teach me the story of a hero.