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When I was seventeen I drank some very good beer I drank some very good beer I purchased With a fake ID My name was Brian McGee I stayed up listening to Queen When I was seventeen

Homer

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Homer
Author
Poet
Writer
Homerus
Homeros
Mæonides
Queens
Fake
Beer
Purchased
Listening
Brian
Name
Seventeen
Names
Drank
Good
Stayed
Queen

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Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man.
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Over the wine-dark sea.
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Shoulder-to-shoulder, swing to the work, we must - just two as we are - if we hope to make some headway. The worst cowards, banded together, have their power, but you and I have got the skill to fight their best.
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It is always the latest song that an audience applauds the most.
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A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows One should our interests and our passions be, My friend must hate the man that injures me.
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Our fruitless labours mourn, And only rich in barren fame return.
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It never was our guise to slight the poor, or aught humane despise.
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I'm a rageaholic. I just can't live without rageahol.
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Jove lifts the golden balances that show The fates of mortal men, and things below.
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Modesty is of no use to a beggar.
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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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The glorious gifts of the gods are not to be cast aside.
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I'm in a place where I don't know where I am!
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By turns the nine delight to sing
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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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Life is not to be bought with heaps of gold Not all Apollo's Pythian treasures hold, Or Troy once held, in peace and pride of sway, Can bribe the poor possession of the day.
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Ah how shameless – the way these mortals blame the gods. From us alone they say come all their miseries yes but they themselves with their own reckless ways compound their pains beyond their proper share.
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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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Whatever day Makes man a slave, takes half his worth away.
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A man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time
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