No Season Now For Calm, Familiar Talk.

Fear, O Achilles, The Wrath Of Heaven; Think On Your Own Father And Have Compassion Upon Me, Who Am The More Pitiable

We Battle On In Words, As Always, Mere Words, And What's The Cure? We Cannot Find A Thing.

The Lot Of Man-to Suffer And Die.

A Sympathetic Friend Can Be Quite As Dear As A Brother.

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.