Victory Passes Back And Forth Between Men.

We Battle On In Words, As Always, Mere Words, And What's The Cure? We Cannot Find A Thing.

Two Urns On Jove's High Throne Have Ever Stood, The Source Of Evil One, And One Of Good; From Thence The Cup Of Mortal Man He Fills, Blessings To These, To Those Distributes Ills; To Most He Mingles Both.

Beyond His Strength No Man Can Fight, Although He Be Eager.

Here, Therefore, Huge And Mighty Warrior Though You Be, Here Shall You Die.

And His Good Wife Will Tear Her Cheeks In Grief, His Sons Are Orphans And He, Soaking The Soil Red With His Own Blood, He Rots Away Himself-more Birds Than Women Flocking Round His Body!