Behold, on wrong Swift vengeance waits; and art subdues the strong.
Fate is the same for the man who holds back, the same if he fights hard. We are all held in a single honor, the brave with the weaklings. A man dies still if he has done nothing, as the one who has done much.
It is not right to glory in the slain
For love deceives the best of woman kind.
If not yet lost to all the sense of shame.
How delicate her feet who shuns the ground, Stepping a-tiptoe on the heads of men.