It is wrong to sorrow without ceasing.
And overpowered by memory Both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely For man - killing Hector, throbbing, crouching Before Achilles' feet as Achilles wept himself, Now for his father, now for Patroclus once again And their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.
The leader, mingling with the vulgar host, Is in the common mass of matter lost.
The melancholy joys of evils pass'd, For he who much has suffer'd, much will know.
It is no bad thing to be a king-to see one's house enriched and one's authority enhanced.
The wine urges me on, the bewitching wine, which sets even a wise man to singing and to laughing gently and rouses him up to dance and brings forth words which were better unspoken.