Without A Sign, His Sword The Brave

Men Grow Tired Of Sleep, Love, Singing And Dancing Sooner Than Of War.

A Decent Boldness Ever Meets With Friends.

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Look Now How Mortals Are Blaming The Gods, For They Say That Evils Come From Us, But In Fact They Themselves Have Woes Beyond Their Share Because Of Their Own Follies.

Anger, Which, Far Sweeter Than Trickling Drops Of Honey, Rises In The Bosom Of A Man Like Smoke.