Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.
See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly.
It is wrong to be sorry without ceasing.
All right, let's not panic. I'll make the money by selling one of my livers. I can get by with one.
Two friends, two bodies with one soul inspired.
...if fifty bands of men surrounded us/ and every sword sang for your blood,/ you could make off still with their cows and sheep.