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How vain, without the merit, is the name.

Homer

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Homer
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Homerus
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Mæonides
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If you are very valiant, it is a god, I think, who gave you this gift.
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Take thou thy arms and come with me, For we must quit ourselves like men, and strive To air our cause, although we be but two. Great is the strength of feeble arms combined, And we can combat even with the brave.
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And here I am using my own lungs like a sucker.
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Better to live or die, once and for all, than die by inches.
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And endless are the modes of speech, and far Extends from side to side the field of words.
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I'm a Spalding Gray in a Rick Dees world.
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Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.
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...if fifty bands of men surrounded us/ and every sword sang for your blood,/ you could make off still with their cows and sheep.
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The Lord gives and the Lord takes away, as it pleases him, for he can do all things.
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If you serve too many masters, you'll soon suffer.
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Anger, which, far sweeter than trickling drops of honey, rises in the bosom of a man like smoke.
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But you can't stop at one, you wanna drink another woman!
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To-morrow we embark upon the boundless sea.
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Reproach is infinite, and knows no end So voluble a weapon is the tongue Wounded, we wound and neither side can fail For every man has equal strength to rail.
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You can't go wrong with cocktail weenies. They look as good as they taste. And they come in this delicious red sauce. It looks like ketchup, it tastes like ketchup, but brother, it ain't ketchup!
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[B]ut it is only what happens, when they die, to all mortals. The sinews no longer hold the flesh and the bones together, and once the spirit has let the white bones, all the rest of the body is made subject to the fire's strong fury, but the soul flitters out like a dream and flies away.
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Thou shalt not horn in on thy husbands racket
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Most grievous of all deaths it is to die of hunger.
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Zeus it seems has given us from youth to old age a nice ball of wool to wind-nothing but wars upon wars until we shall perish every one.
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Rather I'd choose laboriously to bear A weight of woes, and breathe the vital air, A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread, Than reign the sceptred monarch of the dead.
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