You Know Those Balls That They Put

Never To Be Cast Away Are The Gifts Of The Gods, Magnificent, Which They Give Of Their Own Will, No Man Could Have Them For Wanting Them.

The Gods, Likening Themselves To All Kinds Of Strangers, Go In Various Disguises From City To City, Observing The Wrongdoing And The Righteousness Of Men.

All Deaths Are Hateful To Miserable Mortals, But The Most Pitiable Death Of All Is To Starve.

So It Is That The Gods Do Not Give All Men Gifts Of Grace - Neither Good Looks Nor Intelligence Nor Eloquence.

Men In Their Generations Are Like The Leaves Of The Trees. The Wind Blows And One Year's Leaves Are Scattered On The Ground; But The Trees Burst Into Bud And Put On Fresh Ones When The Spring Comes Round.