Whenever a man makes haste, God too hastens with him.

O Death the Healer, scorn thou not, I pray, To come to me: of cureless ills thou art The one physician. Pain lays not its touch Upon a corpse.

I pray the gods some respite from the weary task of this long year's watch that lying on the Atreidae's roof on bended arm, dog- like, I have kept, marking the conclave of all night's stars, those potentates blazing in the heavens that bring winter and summer to mortal men, the constellations, when they wane, when they rise.

Who apart from the gods is without pain for his whole lifetime's length?

For a murderous blow let murderous blow atone.

Overly persuasive a woman's ordinance spreads far, traveling fast; but fast dying a rumor voiced by a woman perishes.

The words of truth are simple.