Sing in me, muse, of arms and a man, who first from the shores of Troy.
Easy is the descent to hell; all night long, all day, the doors of dark Hades stand open; but to retrace the path; to come out again to the sweet air of Heaven - there is the task, there is the burden.
None but himself can be his parallel.
A shifty, fickle object is woman, always. (Varium et mutabile semper femina.)
I shudder when relating it.
Such is the love of praise, so great the anxiety for victory.