The lot of man-to suffer and die.

What greater glory attends a man than what he wins with his racing feet and his striving hands?

Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.

I'm not a bath man myself. More of a cologne man.

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.

His native home deep imag'd in his soul.

…but there they lay, sprawled across the field, craved far more by the vultures than by wives.