All men owe honor to the poets - honor and awe; for they are dearest to the Muse who puts upon their lips the ways of life.

Hateful to me as are the gates of hell, Is he who, hiding one thing in his heart, Utters another.

It is no bad thing to be a king-to see one's house enriched and one's authority enhanced.

Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.

[But] age, the common enemy of mankind, has laid his hand upon you; would that it had fallen upon some other, and that you were still young.

We men are wretched things.

From his tongue flowed speech sweeter than honey.