Heaven Hears And Pities Hapless Men Like

Reproach Is Infinite, And Knows No End.

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

All Men Have Need Of The Gods.

But Curb Thou The High Spirit In Thy Breast, For Gentle Ways Are Best, And Keep Aloof From Sharp Contentions.

All The Survivors Of The War Had Reached Their Homes And So Put The Perils Of Battle And The Sea Behind Them.