The stars never lie, but the astrologers lie about the stars.
Don't mess with the dead, boy, they have eerie powers.
Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.
It is always the latest song that an audience applauds the most.
...if fifty bands of men surrounded us/ and every sword sang for your blood,/ you could make off still with their cows and sheep.
Ah, beer, my one weakness. My Achille's heel, if you will.