For Love Deceives The Best Of Woman

Praise Me Not Too Much, Nor Blame Me, For Thou Speakest To The Greeks Who Know Me.

Now From The Smooth Deep Ocean-stream The Sun Began To Climb The Heavens, And With New Rays Smote The Surrounding Fields.

Ill Fares The State Where Many Masters Rule; Let One Be Lord, One King Supreme.

Men Are So Quick To Blame The Gods: They Say That We Devise Their Misery. But They Themselves- In Their Depravity- Design Grief Greater Than The Griefs That Fate Assigns.

...if Fifty Bands Of Men Surrounded Us/ And Every Sword Sang For Your Blood,/ You Could Make Off Still With Their Cows And Sheep.