Not At All Similar Are The Race

The Rest Were Vulgar Deaths Unknown To Fame.

'yea And I Beheld Sisyphus In Strong Torment, Grasping A Monstrous Stone With Both His Hands. He Was Pressing Thereat With Hands And Feet, And Trying To Roll The Stone Upward Toward The Brow Of The Hill. But Oft As He Was About To Hurl It Over The Top, The Weight Would Drive Him Back, So Once Again To The Plain Rolled The Stone, The Shameless Thing. And He Once More Kept Heaving And Straining, And The Sweat The While Was Pouring Down His Limbs, And The Dust Rose Upwards From His Head.

Dreams Are Sent By God.

Even His Griefs Are A Joy Long After To One That Remembers All That He Wrought And Endured.

Heaven Hears And Pities Hapless Men Like Me, For Sacred Ev'n To Gods Is Misery.