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.

Neither a life of anarchy nor a life under a despot should you praise. To all that lies in the middle has a god given excellence.

Beyond age, leaf withered, man goes three footed no stronger than a child is, a dream that falters in daylight.

Chorus: Zeus, who guided men to think who laid it down that wisdom comes alone through suffering. Still there drips in sleep against the heart grief of memory; against our pleasure we are temperate.

Unions in wedlock are perverted by the victory of shameless passion that masters the female among men and beasts.

Everyone is ready to speak ill of a stranger.

In the lack of judgment great harm arises, but one vote cast can set right a house.