't Is Fortune Gives Us Birth, But

Rage - Goddess, Sing The Rage Of Peleus' Son Achilles, Murderous, Doomed, That Cost The Achaeans Countless Losses, Hurling Down To The House Of Death So Many Sturdy Souls, Great Fighters' Souls, But Made Their Bodies Carrion, Feasts For The Dogs And Birds, And The Will Of Zeus Was Moving Toward Its End. Begin, Muse, When The Two First Broke And Clashed, Agamemnon Lord Of Men And Brilliant Achilles.

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.

To Heal Divisions, To Relieve The Oppress'd, In Virtue Rich; In Blessing Others, Bless'd.

After The Event, Even A Fool Is Wise.

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.