We got a little rule back home: If it's brown, drink it down. If it's black, send it back.

Wise to resolve, and patient to perform.

Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured.

The journey is the thing.

It's disgraceful how these humans blame the gods. They say their tribulations come from us, when they themselves, through their own foolishness, bring hardships which are not decreed by Fate.

Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.

Even the bravest cannot fight beyond his power