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Willingly no one chooses the yoke of slavery.
Aeschylus
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Aeschylus
Dramatist
Playwright
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Elefsina
Æschylus
Aeschylos
Yoke
Willingly
Chooses
Slavery
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I willingly speak to those who know, but for those who do not know I forget.
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Only through suffering do we learn
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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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Nothing forces us to know What we do not want to know Except pain
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Watchful are the Gods of all Hands with slaughter stained. The black Furies wait, and when a man Has grown by luck, not justice, great, With sudden overturn of chance They wear him to a shade, and, cast Down to perdition, who shall save him?
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Who holds a power but newly gained is ever stern of mood.
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As long as there are men the bulwark is safe.
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Old men, what are they? Fast fading the leaf, Three-footed they walk, yet frail as a child, As a dream set afloat in the daylight.
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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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Ye waves That o'er th' interminable ocean wreathe Your crisped smiles.
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If you are not envied, you are not enviable.
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And now it goes as it goes and where it ends is Fate. And neither by singeing flesh nor tipping cups of wine nor shedding burning tears can you enchant away the rigid Fury.
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But still the block of Vengeance firm doth stand, and Fate, as swordsmith, hammers blow on blow.
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