Words are healers of the sick tempered.
Willingly no one chooses the yoke of slavery.
They sent forth men to battle, But no such men return; And home, to claim their welcome, Come ashes in an urn
Who, except the gods, can live time through forever without any pain?
Many men who transgress justice, honor appearance over reality.
Justice shines in very smoky homes, and honors the righteous; but the gold-spangled mansions where the hands are unclean she leaves with eyes averted.