By Hook Or By Crook This Peril

To Labour Is The Lot Of Man Below; And When Jove Gave Us Life, He Gave Us Woe.

Nothing Shall I, While Sane, Compare With A Friend.

Generations Of Men Are Like The Leaves. In Winter, Winds Blow Them Down To Earth, But Then, When Spring Season Comes Again, The Budding Wood Grows More. And So With Men: One Generation Grows, Another Dies Away.

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.

Victory Passes Back And Forth Between Men.