The Rest Were Vulgar Deaths Unknown To

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.

So It Is That The Gods Do Not Give All Men Gifts Of Grace - Neither Good Looks Nor Intelligence Nor Eloquence.

There Is Nothing Nobler Or More Admirable Than When Two People Who See Eye To Eye Keep House As Man And Wife, Confounding Their Enemies And Delighting Their Friends.

Of Men Who Have A Sense Of Honor, More Come Through Alive Than Are Slain, But From Those Who Flee Comes Neither Glory Nor Any Help.

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.