For The Mighty, Even To Give Away

Of All The Gods, Death Only Craves Not Gifts: Nor Sacrifice, Nor Yet Drink-offering Poured Avails; No Altars Hath He, Nor Is Soothed By Hymns Of Praise. From Him Alone Of All The Powers Of Heaven Persuasion Holds Aloof.

It Is Like A Woman Indeed To Take Rapture Before The Fact Is Shown For True. They Believe Too Easily, Are Too Quick To Shift From Ground To Ground; And Swift Indeed The Rumor Voiced By A Woman Dies Again.

Yet Though A Man Gets Many Wounds In Breast, He Dieth Not, Unless The Appointed Time, The Limit Of His Life's Span, Coincide; Nor Does The Man Who By The Hearth At Home Sits Still, Escape The Doom That Fate Decrees.

. . . It Is Yours Women's To Be Silent And Stay Within Doors.

Art Is Far Feebler Than Necessity.