How vain, without the merit, is the name.
Hateful to me as are the gates of hell, Is he who, hiding one thing in his heart, Utters another.
[But] age, the common enemy of mankind, has laid his hand upon you; would that it had fallen upon some other, and that you were still young.
A glorious death is his, who for his country falls.
Do thou restrain the haughty spirit in thy breast, for better far is gentle courtesy.
No TV and no beer makes Homer something something.