Is he not sacred, even to the gods, the wandering man who comes in weariness?
Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured.
Better to flee from death than feel its grip.
'T is fortune gives us birth, But Jove alone endues the soul with worth.
...if fifty bands of men surrounded us/ and every sword sang for your blood,/ you could make off still with their cows and sheep.
A young man is embarrassed to question an older one.