May dawn, as the proverb goes, bring happy tidings coming from her mother night.

Good fortune is a god among men, and more than a god.

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 warn the marauder dragging plunder, chaotic, rich beyond all rights: he'll strike his sails, harried at long last, stunned when the squalls of torment break his spars to bits.

The will was of Zeus, the hand of Hephaestus.

Words are healers of the sick tempered.

If a man suffers ill, let it be without shame; for this is the only profit when we are dead. You will never say a good word about deeds that are evil and disgraceful.