Even Were Sleep Is Concerned,

It Is Not Possible To Fight Beyond Your Strength, Even If You Strive.

A Little Child Born Yesterday A Thing On Mother's Milk And Kisses Fed.

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.

Generations Of Men Are Like The Leaves. In Winter, Winds Blow Them Down To Earth, But Then, When Spring Season Comes Again, The Budding Wood Grows More. And So With Men: One Generation Grows, Another Dies Away.

Tell Me, O Muse, Of Travellers Far And Wide