There Will Be Killing Till The Score

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

There Is Nothing More Dread And More Shameless Than A Woman Who Plans Such Deeds In Her Heart As The Foul Deed Which She Plotted When She Contrived Her Husband's Murder.

I Have No Interest At All In Food And Drink, But Only In Slaughter And Blood And The Agonized Groans Of Mangled Men

And They Die An Equal Death — The Idler And The Man Of Mighty Deeds.

The Life, Which Others Pay, Let Us Bestow, And Give To Fame What We To Nature Owe.