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!

There is a strength in the even of very sorry men

Behold, on wrong Swift vengeance waits; and art subdues the strong.

It [revenge] is sweeter far than flowing honey.

Urge him with truth to frame his fair replies And sure he will for Wisdom never lies.

Still, we will let all this be a thing of the past, though it hurts us, and beat down by constraint the anger that rises inside us. Now I am making an end of my anger. It does not become me, unrelentingly to rage on

The leader, mingling with the vulgar host, Is in the common mass of matter lost.