What Mighty Woes To Thy Imperial Race

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

How Delicate Her Feet Who Shuns The Ground, Stepping A-tiptoe On The Heads Of Men.

Thus Have The Gods Spun The Thread For Wretched Mortals: That They Live In Grief While They Themselves Are Without Cares; For Two Jars Stand On The Floor Of Zeus Of The Gifts Which He Gives, One Of Evils And Another Of Blessings.

Being Eaten By A Crocodile Is Just Like Going To Sleep...in A Giant Blender.

Beauty- It Was A Glorious Gift Of Nature.