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Of all the gods, Death only craves not gifts: Nor sacrifice, nor yet drink-offering poured Avails no altars hath he, nor is soothed By hymns of praise. From him alone of all The powers of heaven Persuasion holds aloof.
Aeschylus
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Aeschylus
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Elefsina
Æschylus
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Long tarries destiny, But comes to those who pray.
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Call no man happy till he is dead.
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Words are healers of the sick tempered.
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Yet though a man gets many wounds in breast, He dieth not, unless the appointed time, The limit of his life's span, coincide Nor does the man who by the hearth at home Sits still, escape the doom that Fate decrees.
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To many mortals silence great gain brings.
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But when once the earth has sucked up a dead man's blood, there is no way to raise him up.
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The evils of mortals are manifold nowhere is trouble of the same wing seen.
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