And now I'm using sarcasm, to confess the whole thing so later I could say I already told you.

But you, Achilles,/ There is not a man in the world more blest than you--/ There never has been, never will be one./ Time was, when you were alive, we Argives/ honored you as a god, and now down here, I see/ You Lord it over the dead in all your power./ So grieve no more at dying, great Achilles.’ I reassured the ghost, but he broke out protesting,/ ‘No winning words about death to me, shining Odysseus!/ By god, I’d rather slave on earth for another man--/ Some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive—than rule down here over all the breathless dead.

How vain, without the merit, is the name.

I'm not a bath man myself. More of a cologne man.

What so tedious as a twice-told tale?

But he whose inborn worth his acts commend, Of gentle soul, to human race a friend.

For too much rest becomes a pain.