The long historian of my country's woes.
I can't even say the word 'titmouse' without giggling like a schoolgirl.
Ah how shameless – the way these mortals blame the gods. From us alone they say come all their miseries yes but they themselves with their own reckless ways compound their pains beyond their proper share.
We all scribble poetry.
Few sons are equal to their fathers; most fall short, all too few surpass them.
There is satiety in all things, in sleep, and love-making, in the loveliness of singing and the innocent dance.