There Is Nothing Worse For Mortals Than

Do Thou Restrain The Haughty Spirit In Thy Breast, For Better Far Is Gentle Courtesy.

She Threw Into The Wine Which They Were Drinking A Drug Which Takes Away Grief And Passion And Brings Forgetfulness Of All Ills

I Wish That Strife Would Vanish Away From Among Gods And Mortals, And Gall, Which Makes A Man Grow Angry For All His Great Mind, That Gall Of Anger That Swarms Like Smoke Inside Of A Man's Heart And Becomes A Thing Sweeter To Him By Far Than The Dripping Of Honey.

Sing, O Muse, Of The Rage Of Achilles, Son Of Peleus, That Brought Countless Ills Upon The Achaeans.

Steel Itself Oft Lures A Man To Fight.