Come, Friend, you too must die. Why moan about it so? Even Patroclus died, a far, far better man than you. And look, you see how handsome and powerful I am? The son of a great man, the mother who gave me life-- A deathless goddess. But even for me, I tell you, Death and the strong force of fate are waiting. There will come a dawn or sunset or high noon When a man will take my life in battle too-- flinging a spear perhaps Or whipping a deadly arrow off his bow.

Here, therefore, huge and mighty warrior though you be, here shall you die.

And now I'm using sarcasm, to confess the whole thing so later I could say I already told you.

We are quick to flare up, we races of men on the earth.

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.

If it doesn't have siamese twins in a jar, it is not a fair.

I'm like that guy who single-handedly built the rocket and flew to the moon. What was his name? Apollo Creed?