The Whims Of Youth Break All The

Zeus It Seems Has Given Us From Youth To Old Age A Nice Ball Of Wool To Wind-nothing But Wars Upon Wars Until We Shall Perish Every One.

Of Men Who Have A Sense Of Honor, More Come Through Alive Than Are Slain, But From Those Who Flee Comes Neither Glory Nor Any Help.

There Is No Fouler Fiend Than A Woman When Her Mind Is Bent To Evil.

So Peaceful Shalt Thou End Thy Blissful Days, And Steal Thyself From Life By Slow Decays.

And Rest At Last Where Souls Unbodied Dwell, In Ever-flowing Meads Of Asphodel.