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Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.
Homer
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Homer
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Homerus
Homeros
Mæonides
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Iliad
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Achilles
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Countless
Muse
Rage
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Son
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I can't even say the word 'titmouse' without giggling like a schoolgirl.
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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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But you can't stop at one, you wanna drink another woman!
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Not vain the weakest, if their force unite.
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Even were sleep is concerned, too much is a bad thing.
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His native home deep imag'd in his soul.
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Sweet sleep fell upon his eyelids, unwakeful, most pleasant, the nearest like death.
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Our fruitless labours mourn, And only rich in barren fame return.
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Now from the smooth deep ocean-stream the sun Began to climb the heavens, and with new rays Smote the surrounding fields.
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Achilles absent was Achilles still!
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To-morrow we embark upon the boundless sea.
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Of men who have a sense of honor, more come through alive than are slain, but from those who flee comes neither glory nor any help.
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I'm not a bath man myself. More of a cologne man.
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