And Now I'm Using Sarcasm,

Men Are So Quick To Blame The Gods: They Say That We Devise Their Misery. But They Themselves- In Their Depravity- Design Grief Greater Than The Griefs That Fate Assigns.

She Spoke And Loosened From Her Bosom The Embroidered Girdle Of Many Colors Into Which All Her Allurements Were Fashioned. In It Was Love And Int Desire Which Steals The Mind Even Of The Wise.

A Hunter Of Shadows, Himself A Shade.

't Is Fortune Gives Us Birth, But Jove Alone Endues The Soul With Worth.

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