For love deceives the best of woman kind.

For I am yearning to visit the limits of the all-nurturing Earth, and Oceans, from whom the gods are sprung.

Men grow tired of sleep, love, singing and dancing sooner than of war.

Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.

The gods, likening themselves to all kinds of strangers, go in various disguises from city to city, observing the wrongdoing and the righteousness of men.

Being eaten by a crocodile is just like going to sleep...in a giant blender.

I want to be alone with my thought.