First You Don't Want Me To Get

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

The Sex Is Ever To A Soldier Kind.

Pffft, English. Who Needs That? I'm Never Going To England.

Sing, O Muse, Of The Rage Of Achilles, Son Of Peleus, That Brought Countless Ills Upon The Achaeans.

Even Were Sleep Is Concerned, Too Much Is A Bad Thing.