Few Sons Attain The Praise Of Their

Restrain Yourself... And Gloat In Silence. I'll Have No Jubilation Here. It Is An Impious Thing To Exult Over The Slain.

It Is Wrong To Be Sorry Without Ceasing.

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.

Uncontrollable Laughter Arose Among The Blessed Gods.

She Threw Into The Wine Which They Were Drinking A Drug Which Takes Away Grief And Passion And Brings Forgetfulness Of All Ills