Aries in his many fits knows no favorites.

True friends appear less moved than counterfeit.

Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.

On these sands and in the clefts of the rocks, in the depths of the sea, in the creaking of the pines, you'll spy secret footprints and catch far-off voices from the homecoming celebration. This land still longs for Odysseus.

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.

When are people going to learn? Democracy doesn't work.

The man who acts the least, upbraids the most.