Ruin, eldest daughter of Zeus, she blinds us all, that fatal madness—she with those delicate feet of hers, never touching the earth, gliding over the heads of men to trap us all. She entangles one man, now another.

And not a man appears to tell their fate.

The lot of man-to suffer and die.

Sleep, delicious and profound, the very counterfeit of death

Words empty as the wind are best left unsaid.

Over the wine-dark sea.

Zeus it seems has given us from youth to old age a nice ball of wool to wind-nothing but wars upon wars until we shall perish every one.