For A Friend With An Understanding Heart

Praise Me Not Too Much, Nor Blame Me, For Thou Speakest To The Greeks Who Know Me.

Don't Mess With The Dead, Boy, They Have Eerie Powers.

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

Look Now How Mortals Are Blaming The Gods, For They Say That Evils Come From Us, But In Fact They Themselves Have Woes Beyond Their Share Because Of Their Own Follies.

By Jove The Stranger And The Poor Are Sent, And What To Those We Give, To Jove Is Lent.