If A Man Owes Me Money, I

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.

When Men Drink, Then They Are Rich And Successful And Win Lawsuits And Are Happy And Help Their Friends. Quickly, Bring Me A Beaker Of Wine, So That I May Wet My Mind And Say Something Clever.

No Man Is Really Honest; None Of Us Is Above The Influence Of Gain.

If I Get Clear Of My Debts, I Care Not Though Men Call Me Bold, Glib Of Tongue, Audacious, Impudent, Shameless, A Fabricator Of Falsehoods, Inventor Of Words, Practised In Lawsuits, A Pettifogger, A Rattle, A Fox, A Sharper, A Knave, A Dissembler, A Slippery Fellow, An Imposter, A Rogue That Deserves The Cat-o-nine-tails, A Blackguard, A Twister, A Licker-up Of Hashes; They Call All This When They Meet Me, If They Please, I Care Not.