We Mortals Hear Only The News, And

I War Not With The Dead.

The Bitter Dregs Of Fortune's Cup To Drain.

Far From Me Be The Gift Of Bacchus--pernicious, Inflaming Wine, That Weakens Both Body And Mind.

Ah How Shameless – The Way These Mortals Blame The Gods. From Us Alone They Say Come All Their Miseries Yes But They Themselves With Their Own Reckless Ways Compound Their Pains Beyond Their Proper Share.

The Chance Of War Is Equal, And The Slayer Oft Is Slain.