Times Change. The Vices Of Your Age

Only By Being Suspended Aloft, By Dangling My Mind In The Heavens And Mingling My Rare Thought With The Ethereal Air, Could I Ever Achieve Strict Scientific Accuracy In My Survey Of The Vast Empyrean. Had I Pursued My Inquiries From Down There On The Ground, My Data Would Be Worthless. The Earth, You See, Pulls Down The Delicate Essence Of Thought To Its Own Gross Level.

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

Old Age Is Second Childhood.

Open Your Mouth And Shut Your Eyes And See What Zeus Will Send You.

Chorus Of Women: [...] Oh! My Good, Gallant Lysistrata, And All My Friends, Be Ever Like A Bundle Of Nettles; Never Let You Anger Slacken; The Wind Of Fortune Blown Our Way.