But you, Achilles,/ There is not a man in the world more blest than you--/ There never has been, never will be one./ Time was, when you were alive, we Argives/ honored you as a god, and now down here, I see/ You Lord it over the dead in all your power./ So grieve no more at dying, great Achilles.’ I reassured the ghost, but he broke out protesting,/ ‘No winning words about death to me, shining Odysseus!/ By god, I’d rather slave on earth for another man--/ Some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive—than rule down here over all the breathless dead.

By Jove the stranger and the poor are sent, and what to those we give, to Jove is lent.

Beyond his strength no man can fight, although he be eager.

We're goin bowling. If we don't come back, avenge our deaths.

Just once I'd like someone to call me 'Sir' without adding 'You're making a scene.'

Know from the bounteous heaven all riches flow.

It is not right to exult over slain men.