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The lot of man-to suffer and die.

Homer

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Homer
Author
Poet
Writer
Homerus
Homeros
Mæonides
Coping
Suffer
Difficulty
Dies
Suffering
Men

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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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Men in their generations are like the leaves of the trees. The wind blows and one year's leaves are scattered on the ground but the trees burst into bud and put on fresh ones when the spring comes round.
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No one can hurry me down to Hades before my time, but if a man's hour is come, be he brave or be he coward, there is no escape for him when he has once been born.
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It is always the latest song that an audience applauds the most.
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Zeus does not bring all men's plans to fulfillment.
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Now son, you don’t want to drink beer. That’s for Daddies, and kids with fake IDs.
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A little child born yesterday A thing on mother's milk and kisses fed.
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Insignificant mortals, who are as leaves are, and now flourish and grow warm with life, and feed on what the ground gives, but then again fade away and are dead.
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Few sons attain the praise Of their great sires and most their sires disgrace.
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I have no interest at all in food and drink, but only in slaughter and blood and the agonized groans of mangled men
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