The sun rose on the flawless brimming sea into a sky all brazen-all one brightening for gods immortal and for mortal men on plowlands kind with grain.
But he whose inborn worth his acts commend, Of gentle soul, to human race a friend.
Miserable mortals who like leaves at one moment flame with life eating the produce of the land and at another moment weakly perish.
Dreams are sent by God.
down from his brow she ran his curls like thick hyacinth clusters full of blooms
Of men who have a sense of honor, more come through alive than are slain, but from those who flee comes neither glory nor any help.