How Prone To Doubt, How Cautious Are

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

All Men Owe Honor To The Poets - Honor And Awe; For They Are Dearest To The Muse Who Puts Upon Their Lips The Ways Of Life.

To Labour Is The Lot Of Man Below; And When Jove Gave Us Life, He Gave Us Woe.

She Sent Him A Warm And Gentle Wind, And Lord Odysseus Was Happy As He Set His Sails To Catch The Breeze. He Sat Beside The Steering Oar And Used His Skill To Steer The Raft.

For Rarely Are Sons Similar To Their Fathers: Most Are Worse, And A Few Are Better Than Their Fathers.