Hunger Is Insolent, And Will Be Fed.

Tell Me, O Muse, Of Travellers Far And Wide

By Jove The Stranger And The Poor Are Sent, And What To Those We Give, To Jove Is Lent.

Long Exercised In Woes.

I Didn't Lie! I Just Created Fiction With My Mouth!

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.