And his good wife will tear her cheeks in grief, his sons are orphans and he, soaking the soil red with his own blood, he rots away himself-more birds than women flocking round his body!

All deaths are hateful to miserable mortals, but the most pitiable death of all is to starve.

Nothing shall I, while sane, compare with a friend.

A young man is embarrassed to question an older one.

I want to be alone with my thought.

A glorious death is his, who for his country falls.

The minds of the everlasting gods are not changed suddenly.