All Strangers And Beggars Are From Zeus,

Hateful To Me As Are The Gates Of Hell, Is He Who, Hiding One Thing In His Heart, Utters Another.

Down From His Brow She Ran His Curls Like Thick Hyacinth Clusters Full Of Blooms

It Is Not Right To Glory In The Slain

Better To Live Or Die, Once And For All, Than Die By Inches.

Thou Shalt Not Take Moochers Into Thy Hut?