Whene’er, by Jove’s decree, our conquering powers Shall humble to the dust her lofty towers.
Goddess,... do not be angry with me about this. I am quite aware that my wife Penelope is nothing like so tall or so beautiful as yourself. She is only a woman, whereas you are an immortal. Nevertheless, I want to get home, and can think of nothing else.
Then in anger divine Aphrodite addressed her: “Do not provoke me, wicked girl, lest I drop you in anger, and hate you as much as I now terribly love you, and devise painful hostilities, and you are caught in the middle of both, Trojans and Danaans, and are destroyed by an evil fate.” So she spoke; and Helen born of Zeus was frightened; and.
Iron has powers to draw a man to ruin.
Far from the hateful cause of all his woes. Neleus his treasures one long year detains, As long he groan’d in Philacus’ chains: Meantime, what anguish and what rage combined For lovely Pero rack’d his labouring mind!
Better to be the hireling of a stranger, and serve a man of mean estate whose living is but small, than be the ruler over all these dead and gone.
The race of men is like the race of leaves. As one generation flourishes, another decays.
It is unfortunate for us, that, of some of the greatest men, we know least, and talk most. Homer, Socrates, and Shakespere have, perhaps, contributed more to the intellectual enlightenment of mankind than any other three writers who could be named, and yet the history of all three has given rise to a boundless ocean of discussion, which has left us little save the option of choosing which theory or theories we will follow.
It was the gray sea that bore you and the towering rocks, so sheer the heart in you is turned from us.
Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns, driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy.
Yet if our chief for plunder only fight, The spoils of Ilion shall thy loss requite, Whene’er, by Jove’s decree, our conquering powers Shall humble to the dust her lofty towers.
Weapons themselves can tempt a man to fight.
A man who has suffered much and wandered much has pleasure out of his sorrows.
Ah my friend, if you and I could escape this fray and live forever, never a trace of age, immortal, I would never fight on the front lines again or command you in the field where men win fame. But now, as it is, the fates of death await us, thousands poised to strike, and not a man alive can flee them or escape – so in we go for attack! Give our enemy glory or win it for ourselves!
Sit down and hold your tongue as I bid you for if I once begin to lay my hands about you, though all heaven were on your side it would profit you nothing.
Endure, my heart; yea, a baser thing thou once didst bear.
Nastes and Amphimachus, the illustrious sons of Nomion – but Nastes, chilldish fool that he was, Went into battle decked out in gold like a girl. But gold could not help him escape a horrible death at the hands of Aeacus’ grandson, the swift Achilles, In the bed of the river, and Achilles, fierce ad fiery, Took care of all his gold.
The gods granted us misery, in jealousy over the thought that we two, always together, should enjoy our youth, and then come to the threshold of old age.
As the youth came on in front of the others, he got the bronze in his chest beside the right nipple. On through his shoulder it went and he fell to earth in the dust like a sooth black poplar whose branchy top falls in the low grassland of a mighty marsh to the gleaming ax of some chariot-maker, who leaves t to dry by the banks of a river that he may bend him a rim for a beautiful chariot. Even such was the fall of Anthemion’s son Simoeisius.
And now to one side Gorgythion drooped his head and heavy helmet; He let it fall over like the bloom of a garden poppy, heavy with seed and the rains of spring.