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For the mighty, even to give away is grace.

Aeschylus

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Aeschylus
Dramatist
Playwright
Tragedy Writer
Warrior
Elefsina
Æschylus
Aeschylos
Away
Give
Giving
Even
Mighty
Grace

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I warn the marauder dragging plunder, chaotic, rich beyond all rights: he'll strike his sails, harried at long last, stunned when the squalls of torment break his spars to bits.
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A god implants in mortal guilt whenever he wants utterly to confound a house.
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In war, truth is the first casualty.
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In every tyrant's heart there springs in the end this poison, that he cannot trust a friend.
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Truth is always the first casualty of war.
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Time brings all things to pass.
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For the poison of hatred seated near the heart doubles the burden for the one who suffers the disease he is burdened with his own sorrow, and groans on seeing another's happiness.
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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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No man looks with love on deeds that to the high Gods hateful prove.
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Learning is ever in the freshness of its youth, even for the old.
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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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Pain lays not its touch upon a corpse.
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The best by far is to marry in one's own rank.
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They sent forth men to battle, But no such men return And home, to claim their welcome, Come ashes in an urn
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