A Great Ox Stands On My Tongue.

For Wherein Is Life Sweet To Him Who Suffers Grief?

With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others' Hands, Are We Now Smitten.

I, Schooled In Misery, Know Many Purifying Rites, And I Know Where Speech Is Proper And Where Silence.

Misfortune Wandering The Same Track Lights Now Upon One And Now Upon Another.

For The Lips Of Zeus Do Not Know How To Lie, But Bring To Fulfilment Every Word.