Whoever Obeys The Gods, To Him They

It Is Entirely Seemly For A Young Man Killed In Battle To Lie Mangled By The Bronze Spear. In His Death All Things Appear Fair.

Pffft, English. Who Needs That? I'm Never Going To England.

Bursts As A Wave That From The Clouds Impends, And Swell'd With Tempests On The Ship Descends; White Are The Decks With Foam; The Winds Aloud Howl O'er The Masts, And Sing Through Every Shroud: Pale, Trembling, Tir'd, The Sailors Freeze With Fears; And Instant Death On Every Wave Appears.

Hateful To Me As Are The Gates Of Hell, Is He Who, Hiding One Thing In His Heart, Utters Another.

Better To Flee From Death Than Feel Its Grip.