Praise Me Not Too Much, Nor Blame

All Deaths Are Hateful To Miserable Mortals, But The Most Pitiable Death Of All Is To Starve.

You Will Certainly Not Be Able To Take The Lead In All Things Yourself, For To One Man A God Has Given Deeds Of War, And To Another The Dance, To Another Lyre And Song, And In Another Wide-sounding Zeus Puts A Good Mind.

Achilles Absent Was Achilles Still!

The Roaring Seas And Many A Dark Range Of Mountains Lie Between Us.

...if Fifty Bands Of Men Surrounded Us/ And Every Sword Sang For Your Blood,/ You Could Make Off Still With Their Cows And Sheep.