I Foresee A Great Funeral Contest Over

I Send You A Kaffis Of Mustard Seed, That You May Taste And Acknowledge The Bitterness Of My Victory.

Bury My Body And Don't Build Any Monument. Keep My Hands Out So The People Know The One Who Won The World Had Nothing In Hand When He Died.

At Achilles Tomb, O Fortunate Youth, To Have Found Homer As The Herald Of Your Glory!

There Is Something Noble In Hearing Myself Ill Spoken Of, When I Am Doing Well.

A Tomb Now Suffices Him For Whom The Whole World Was Not Sufficient.