This is the great fault of wine; it first trips up the feet: it is a cunning wrestler.

He who dies for virtue does not perish.

I count him lost, who is lost to shame.

Remind a man of what he remembers, and you will make him forget it.

That man will never be unwelcome to others who makes himself agreeable to his own family.

I am undone! I have smashed the waggon. [I have ruined all.]

Ah yes, the gods use us mortals as footballs!