It is not right to glory in the slain
The leader, mingling with the vulgar host, Is in the common mass of matter lost.
The long historian of my country's woes.
See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly.
Wine can of their wits the wise beguile, Make the sage frolic, and the serious smile
...he'll never lie - the man is far too wise.