For no one loves the bearer of bad tidings.
It's terrible when the one who does the judging judges things all wrong.
In darkness one may be ashamed of what one does, without the shame of disgrace.
Not even Ares battles against necessity.
The strongest iron, hardened in the fire, most often ends in scraps and shatterings.
Yet I pity the poor wretch, though he's my enemy. He's yoked to an evil delusion, but the same fate could be mine. I see clearly: we who live are all phantoms, fleeing shadows.