Immortals Are Never Alien To One Another.

The Tongue Of Man Is A Twisty Thing.

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

Reproach Is Infinite, And Knows No End So Voluble A Weapon Is The Tongue; Wounded, We Wound; And Neither Side Can Fail For Every Man Has Equal Strength To Rail.

Not At All Similar Are The Race Of The Immortal Gods And The Race Of Men Who Walk Upon The Earth.

Wine Lead To Folly, Making Even The Wise To Laugh Immoderately, To Dance, And To Utter What Had Better Have Been Kept Silent.