We mortals hear only the news, and know nothing at all.

Now from his breast into the eyes the ache of longing mounted, and he wept at last, his dear wife, clear and faithful, in his arms, longed for as the sunwarmed earth is longed for by a swimmer spent in rough water where his ship went down under Poseidon's blows, gale winds and tons of sea. Few men can keep alive through a big serf to crawl, clotted with brine, on kindly beaches in joy, in joy, knowing the abyss behind: and so she too rejoiced, her gaze upon her husband, her white arms round him pressed as though forever.

'T is fortune gives us birth, But Jove alone endues the soul with worth.

Once you go Vatican, you never go back again.

For rarely are sons similar to their fathers: most are worse, and a few are better than their fathers.

He lives not long who battles with the immortals, nor do his children prattle about his knees when he has come back from battle and the dread fray.

And overpowered by memory Both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely For man - killing Hector, throbbing, crouching Before Achilles' feet as Achilles wept himself, Now for his father, now for Patroclus once again And their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.