Of All Creatures That Breathe And Move

But You, Achilles,/ There Is Not A Man In The World More Blest Than You--/ There Never Has Been, Never Will Be One./ Time Was, When You Were Alive, We Argives/ Honored You As A God, And Now Down Here, I See/ You Lord It Over The Dead In All Your Power./ So Grieve No More At Dying, Great Achilles.’ I Reassured The Ghost, But He Broke Out Protesting,/ ‘no Winning Words About Death To Me, Shining Odysseus!/ By God, I’d Rather Slave On Earth For Another Man--/ Some Dirt-poor Tenant Farmer Who Scrapes To Keep Alive—than Rule Down Here Over All The Breathless Dead.

I Can't Even Say The Word 'titmouse' Without Giggling Like A Schoolgirl.

I Have No Interest At All In Food And Drink, But Only In Slaughter And Blood And The Agonized Groans Of Mangled Men

Far From Me Be The Gift Of Bacchus--pernicious, Inflaming Wine, That Weakens Both Body And Mind.

A Man Dies Still If He Has Done Nothing, As One Who Has Done Much.