I'll Get Out Of This City Alive,

Bursts As A Wave That From The Clouds Impends, And Swell'd With Tempests On The Ship Descends; White Are The Decks With Foam; The Winds Aloud Howl O'er The Masts, And Sing Through Every Shroud: Pale, Trembling, Tir'd, The Sailors Freeze With Fears; And Instant Death On Every Wave Appears.

Men Grow Tired Of Sleep, Love, Singing And Dancing Sooner Than Of War.

Few Sons Attain The Praise Of Their Great Sires And Most Their Sires Disgrace.

To Labour Is The Lot Of Man Below; And When Jove Gave Us Life, He Gave Us Woe.

Victory Passes Back And Forth Between Men.