The long historian of my country's woes.
One who contends with immortals lives a very short life.
Now from the smooth deep ocean-stream the sun Began to climb the heavens, and with new rays Smote the surrounding fields.
In saffron-colored mantle from the tides Of Oceans rose the Morning to bright light TO gods and men.
Do not mourn the dead with the belly.
Thou wilt lament Hereafter, when the evil shall be done And shall admit no cure.
Short is my date, but deathless my renown.
The life, which others pay, let us bestow, And give to fame what we to nature owe.
But sure the eye of time beholds no name, So blest as thine in all the rolls of fame.
And rest at last where souls unbodied dwell, In ever-flowing meads of Asphodel.
Even when someone battles hard, there is an equal portion for one who lingers behind, and in the same honor are held both the coward and the brave man; the idle man and he who has done much meet death alike.
If you are very valiant, it is a god, I think, who gave you this gift.
You will certainly not be able to take the lead in all things yourself, for to one man a god has given deeds of war, and to another the dance, to another lyre and song, and in another wide-sounding Zeus puts a good mind.
So it is that the gods do not give all men gifts of grace - neither good looks nor intelligence nor eloquence.
Wide-sounding Zeus takes away half a man's worth on the day when slavery comes upon him.
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.
We got a little rule back home: If it's brown, drink it down. If it's black, send it back.
When are people going to learn? Democracy doesn't work.
Once you go Vatican, you never go back again.
The God of War will see fair play-he's often slain that wants to slay!
Zeus it seems has given us from youth to old age a nice ball of wool to wind-nothing but wars upon wars until we shall perish every one.
Clanless, lawless, homeless is he who is in love with civil war, that brutal ferocious thing.
Beauty- it was a glorious gift of nature.
For they imagined as they wished--that it was a wild shot,/ an unintended killing--fools, not to comprehend/ they were already in the grip of death./ But glaring under his brows Odysseus answered: 'You yellow dogs, you thought I'd never make it/ home from the land of Troy. You took my house to plunder,/ twisted my maids to serve your beds. You dared/ bid for my wife while I was still alive./ Contempt was all you had for the gods who rule wide heaven,/ contempt for what men say of you hereafter./ Your last hour has come. You die in blood.
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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