Now Son, You Don’t Want To Drink

Over The Wine-dark Sea.

Be Still My Heart; Thou Hast Known Worse Than This.

And By The Sacred Parchment, I Swear That If I Reveal The Secrets Of The Stonecutters, May My Stomach Become Bloated And My Head Be Plucked Of All But Three Hairs

No Season Now For Calm, Familiar Talk.

The Gods Give To Mortals Not Everything At The Same Time.