Over The Wine-dark Sea.

Death Submits To No One.

There Is A Strength In The Even Of Very Sorry Men

Wine Sets Even A Thoughtful Man To Singing, Or Sets Him Into Softly Laughing, Sets Him To Dancing. Sometimes It Tosses Out A Word That Was Better Unspoken.

The Skin Of The Coward Changes Color All The Time, He Can't Get A Grip On Himself, He Can't Sit Still, He Squats And Rocks, Shifting His Weight From Foot To Foot, His Heart Racing, Pounding Inside The Fellow's Ribs, His Teeth Chattering. He Dreads Some Grisly Death. But The Skin Of A Brave Soldier Never Blanches. He's All Control. Tense But No Great Fear.

One Man Is A Splendid Fighter -- A God Has Made Him So -- One's A Dancer, Another Skilled At Lyre And Song, And Deep In The Next Man's Chest Farseeing Zeus Plants The Gift Of Judgment, Good Clear Sense. And Many Reap The Benefits Of That Treasure.