The windy satisfaction of the tongue.
Wine can of their wits the wise beguile, Make the sage frolic, and the serious smile
There is no greater fame for a man than that which he wins with his footwork or the skill of his hands.
The leader, mingling with the vulgar host, Is in the common mass of matter lost.
Let him submit to me! Only the god of death is so relentless, Death submits to no one—so mortals hate him most of all the gods. Let him bow down to me! I am the greater king, I am the elder-born, I claim—the greater man.
Life and death are balanced as it were on the edge of a razor