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Thus have the gods spun the thread for wretched mortals: that they live in grief while they themselves are without cares for two jars stand on the floor of Zeus of the gifts which he gives, one of evils and another of blessings.
Homer
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Homer
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What is this word that broke through the fence of your teeth, Atreides?
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Yet while my Hector still survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all in thee.
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The wine urges me on, the bewitching wine, which sets even a wise man to singing and to laughing gently and rouses him up to dance and brings forth words which were better unspoken.
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There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.
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His native home deep imag'd in his soul.
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It is entirely seemly for a young man killed in battle to lie mangled by the bronze spear. In his death all things appear fair.
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I would rather be tied to the soil as a serf... than be king of all these dead and destroyed.
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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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Hateful to me as are the gates of hell, Is he who, hiding one thing in his heart, Utters another.
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