God Help Me, I'm Just Not That

Which Would You Rather Be, A Conqueror In The Olympic Games, Or The Crier That Proclaims Who Are Conquerors?

It Is Not Strength, But Art, Obtains The Prize, And To Be Swift Is Less Than To Be Wise.

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.

Two Friends, Two Bodies With One Soul Inspired.

Two Diverse Gates There Are Of Bodiless Dreams, These Of Sawn Ivory, And Those Of Horn. Such Dreams As Issue Where The Ivory Gleams Fly Without Fate, And Turn Our Hopes To Scorn. But Dreams Which Issue Through The Burnished Horn, What Man Soe'er Beholds Them On His Bed, These Work With Virtue And Of Truth Are Born.