Let the gods take care of everything. Many timesthey resurrect a man whom disaster left lying face down on the black earth. Many times they topplea man and pin him, back to the soil, though hewas solid on his feet. A multitude of evilsbatters him as he wanders hungry and mad.

The fox knows many tricks,the hedgehog only one. A good one.

Her sprig of myrtle clothed her beautiful roseThat her hands were happily playing with,And her hair fellAs darkness on her back and shoulders.SomeoneRight in the middle of the myrtle.

Nothing in the world can surprise me now. Nothingis impossible or too wonderful, for Zeus, fatherof the Olympians, has turned midday into black nightby shielding light from the blossoming sun,and now dark terror hangs over mankind.Anything may happen, so do not be amazed if beastson dry land seek pasture with dolphins inthe ocean, and those beasts who loved sunny hillslove crashing seawaves more than the warm mainland.

Go take your cup and walk along the timber deckOf our roaming ship; drain the hollow casksOf all their red wine. How can we stay soberon the watch when all the rest are drunk?

Let brawling waves beat his shipagainst the shore, and have the mop-haired Thracianstake him naked at Salmydessos,and he will suffer a thousand calamities as he chews the bread of slaves.His body will stiffen in freezing surfas he wrestles with slimy seaweed,and his teeth will rattle like a helpless dog,flopped on his belly in the surge,puking out the brine. Let me watch him grovelin mud—for the wrong he did me:as a traitor he trampled on our good faith,he who was once my comrade.

A life of doing nothing is good for old men,especially if they are simple in their ways,or stupid, or inane in their endless blabberas old men tend to be.

One big thing I understand:I know how to spit back with black venomagainst the man who wrongs me.

If you irritate the wound, Perikles, no manin our city will enjoy the festivities.These men were washed under by the thudding seawaves,and the hearts in our chest are swollen with pain.Yet against this incurable misery, the godsgive us the harsh medicine of endurance.Sorrows come and go, friend, and now they strike usand we look with horror on the bleeding sores,yet tomorrow others will mourn the dead. I tell you,hold back your feminine tears and endure.

No man, Aisimides, who bows to the mud-slingingmob has ever been capable of profound pleasures.