High Thoughts Must Have High Language.

This Is What Extremely Grieves Us, That A Man Who Never Fought Should Contrive Our Fees To Pilfer, On Who For His Native Land Never To This Day Had Oar, Or Lance, Or Blister In His Hand.

To Invoke Solely The Weaker Arguments And Yet Triumph Is An Art Worth More Than A Hundred Thousand Drachmae.

The Gods, My Dear Simple Fellow, Are A Mere Expression Coined By Vulgar Superstition. We Frown Upon Such Coinage Here.

It Is Bad Taste For A Poet To Be Coarse And Hairy.

Shall I Crack Any Of Those Old Jokes, Master, At Which The Audience Never Fail To Laugh?