Tell Me, O Muse, Of

I Wish That Strife Would Vanish Away From Among Gods And Mortals, And Gall, Which Makes A Man Grow Angry For All His Great Mind, That Gall Of Anger That Swarms Like Smoke Inside Of A Man's Heart And Becomes A Thing Sweeter To Him By Far Than The Dripping Of Honey.

The Ugliest Man Was He Who Came To Troy; With Squinting Eyes And One Distorted Foot.

But He Whose Inborn Worth His Acts Commend, Of Gentle Soul, To Human Race A Friend.

Thus Have The Gods Spun The Thread For Wretched Mortals: That They Live In Grief While They Themselves Are Without Cares; For Two Jars Stand On The Floor Of Zeus Of The Gifts Which He Gives, One Of Evils And Another Of Blessings.

The Long Historian Of My Country's Woes.