That Is The Gods' Work, Spinning Threads

Men In Their Generations Are Like The Leaves Of The Trees. The Wind Blows And One Year's Leaves Are Scattered On The Ground; But The Trees Burst Into Bud And Put On Fresh Ones When The Spring Comes Round.

It Was Built Against The Will Of The Immortal Gods, And So It Did Not Last For Long.

Sweet Sleep Fell Upon His Eyelids, Unwakeful, Most Pleasant, The Nearest Like Death.

No Tv And No Beer Makes Homer Something Something.

I War Not With The Dead.