The minds of the everlasting gods are not changed suddenly.

And they die an equal death — the idler and the man of mighty deeds.

The tongue of man is a twisty thing, there are plenty of words there of every kind.

Over the wine-dark sea.

And here I am using my own lungs like a sucker.

Not vain the weakest, if their force unite.

The skin of the coward changes color all the time, he can't get a grip on himself, he can't sit still, he squats and rocks, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his heart racing, pounding inside the fellow's ribs, his teeth chattering. He dreads some grisly death. But the skin of a brave soldier never blanches. He's all control. Tense but no great fear.