The moving light, rejoicing in its strength,
Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way,
In golden glory, like some strange new sun...

You are young and young your rule and you think that the tower in which you live is free from sorrow: from it have I not seen two tyrants thrown? The third, who now is king, I shall yet live to see him fall, of all three most suddenly, most dishonored.

They sent forth men to battle, But no such men return; And home, to claim their welcome, Come ashes in an urn

Rumours voiced by women come to nothing.

Zeus, first cause, prime mover; for what thing without Zeus is done among mortals?

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.