Over the wine-dark sea.

Ah how shameless – the way these mortals blame the gods. From us alone they say come all their miseries yes but they themselves with their own reckless ways compound their pains beyond their proper share.

How vain, without the merit, is the name.

The other day, I was so desperate for a beer, I snuck into the football stadium and ate the dirt under the bleachers.

Blame the guy who doesn't speak Engish.

Thus have the gods spun the thread for wretched mortals: that they live in grief while they themselves are without cares; for two jars stand on the floor of Zeus of the gifts which he gives, one of evils and another of blessings.

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