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If you're gonna get mad at me every time I do something stupid, then I guess I'll just have to stop doing stupid things.

Homer

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Homer
Author
Poet
Writer
Homerus
Homeros
Mæonides
Stupid
Stop
Every
Something
Things
Time
Mad
Gonna
Guess

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The gods give to mortals not everything at the same time.
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It is equally bad when one speeds on the guest unwilling to go, and when he holds back one who is hastening. Rather one should befriend the guest who is there, but speed him when he wishes.
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Like a girl, a baby running after her mother, begging to be picked up, and she tugs on her skirts, holding her back as she tries to hurry off—all tears, fawning up at her, till she takes her in her arms… That’s how you look, Patroclus, streaming live tears.
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Oall the creatures that creep and breathe on earth, there is none more wretched than man.
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Wine sets even a thoughtful man to singing, or sets him into softly laughing, sets him to dancing. Sometimes it tosses out a word that was better unspoken.
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I long for home, long for the sight of home.
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See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly.
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The journey is the thing.
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Thou knowst the oer-eager vehemence of youth,How quick in temper, and in judgement weak.
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The rest were vulgar deaths unknown to fame.
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One man is a splendid fighter -- a god has made him so -- one's a dancer, another skilled at lyre and song, and deep in the next man's chest farseeing Zeus plants the gift of judgment, good clear sense. And many reap the benefits of that treasure.
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I'm a people person...who drinks.
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Ah, good ol’ trustworthy beer. My love for you will never die.
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In every sorrowing soul I pour'd delight, And poverty stood smiling in my sight.
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The minds of the everlasting gods are not changed suddenly.
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A little child born yesterday A thing on mother's milk and kisses fed.
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Two diverse gates there are of bodiless dreams, These of sawn ivory, and those of horn. Such dreams as issue where the ivory gleams Fly without fate, and turn our hopes to scorn. But dreams which issue through the burnished horn, What man soe'er beholds them on his bed, These work with virtue and of truth are born.
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The lot of man-to suffer and die.
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Thou shalt not horn in on thy husbands racket
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Why have you come to me here, dear heart, with all these instructions? I promise you I will do everything just as you ask. But come closer. Let us give in to grief, however briefly, in each other's arms.
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