It Is Wrong To Sorrow Without Ceasing.

For I Am Yearning To Visit The Limits Of The All-nurturing Earth, And Oceans, From Whom The Gods Are Sprung.

I'm Like That Guy Who Single-handedly Built The Rocket And Flew To The Moon. What Was His Name? Apollo Creed?

Come, Friend, You Too Must Die. Why Moan About It So? Even Patroclus Died, A Far, Far Better Man Than You. And Look, You See How Handsome And Powerful I Am? The Son Of A Great Man, The Mother Who Gave Me Life-- A Deathless Goddess. But Even For Me, I Tell You, Death And The Strong Force Of Fate Are Waiting. There Will Come A Dawn Or Sunset Or High Noon When A Man Will Take My Life In Battle Too-- Flinging A Spear Perhaps Or Whipping A Deadly Arrow Off His Bow.

I Should Rather Labor As Another's Serf, In The Home Of A Man Without Fortune, One Whose Livelihood Was Meager, Than Rule Over All The Departed Dead.

Hunger Is Insolent, And Will Be Fed.