Ill Fares The State Where

Miserable Mortals Who Like Leaves At One Moment Flame With Life Eating The Produce Of The Land And At Another Moment Weakly Perish.

The Melancholy Joys Of Evils Pass'd, For He Who Much Has Suffer'd, Much Will Know.

But You, Achilles,/ There Is Not A Man In The World More Blest Than You--/ There Never Has Been, Never Will Be One./ Time Was, When You Were Alive, We Argives/ Honored You As A God, And Now Down Here, I See/ You Lord It Over The Dead In All Your Power./ So Grieve No More At Dying, Great Achilles.’ I Reassured The Ghost, But He Broke Out Protesting,/ ‘no Winning Words About Death To Me, Shining Odysseus!/ By God, I’d Rather Slave On Earth For Another Man--/ Some Dirt-poor Tenant Farmer Who Scrapes To Keep Alive—than Rule Down Here Over All The Breathless Dead.

Most Grievous Of All Deaths It Is To Die Of Hunger.

It Is A Wise Child That Knows His Own Father. [lat., Nondum Enim Quisquam Suum Parentem Ipse Cognosvit.]