Let him submit to me! Only the god of death is so relentless, Death submits to no one—so mortals hate him most of all the gods. Let him bow down to me! I am the greater king, I am the elder-born, I claim—the greater man.

Miserable mortals who like leaves at one moment flame with life eating the produce of the land and at another moment weakly perish.

The charity that is a trifle to us can be precious to others.

Many shining actions owe their success to chance, though the general or statesman receive the applause.

Like a girl, a baby running after her mother, begging to be picked up, and she tugs on her skirts, holding her back as she tries to hurry off—all tears, fawning up at her, till she takes her in her arms… That’s how you look, Patroclus, streaming live tears.

Oh, my tattered rags are caught on your coffee table.

Pffft, English. Who needs that? I'm never going to England.