Generations of men are like the leaves. In winter, winds blow them down to earth, but then, when spring season comes again, the budding wood grows more. And so with men: one generation grows, another dies away.

All the survivors of the war had reached their homes and so put the perils of battle and the sea behind them.

Life and death are balanced as it were on the edge of a razor

Pray, for all men need the aid of the gods.

Too many kings can ruin an army

It is entirely seemly for a young man killed in battle to lie mangled by the bronze spear. In his death all things appear fair.

It's about time trees were good for something, instead of just standing there like jerks!