Like Warmed-up Cabbage Served At

Of What Use Are Pedigrees, Or To Be Thought Of Noble Blood, Or The Display Of Family Portraits, O Ponticus?

Wisdom Is The Winner Over Good Luck.

For Whoever Meditates A Crime Is Guilty Of The Deed.

Already Long Ago, From When We Sold Our Vote To No Man, The People Have Abdicated Our Duties; For The People Who Once Upon A Time Handed Out Military Command, High Civil Office, Legions — Everything, Now Restrains Itself And Anxiously Hopes For Just Two Things: Bread And Circuses.

All Arts His Own, The Hungry Greekling Counts; And Bid Him Mount The Skies, The Skies He Mounts.