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On me the tempest falls. It does not make me tremble. O holy Mother Earth, O air and sun, behold me. I am wronged.
Aeschylus
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Aeschylus
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Elefsina
Æschylus
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I pray the gods some respite from the weary task of this long year's watch that lying on the Atreidae's roof on bended arm, dog- like, I have kept, marking the conclave of all night's stars, those potentates blazing in the heavens that bring winter and summer to mortal men, the constellations, when they wane, when they rise.
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To make wail and lament for one's ill fortune, when one will win a tear from the audience, is well worthwhile.
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This is a sickness rooted and inherent in the nature of a tyranny: that he that holds it does not trust his friends.
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For there below ground sits the Dark God, strong to call men to judgment he sees all, and writes it in his memory.
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