There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad.

Wine sets even a thoughtful man to singing, or sets him into softly laughing, sets him to dancing. Sometimes it tosses out a word that was better unspoken.

What so tedious as a twice-told tale?

But curb thou the high spirit in thy breast, for gentle ways are best, and keep aloof from sharp contentions.

We men are wretched things.

No one can hurry me down to Hades before my time, but if a man's hour is come, be he brave or be he coward, there is no escape for him when he has once been born.

And not a man appears to tell their fate.