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Life and death are balanced as it were on the edge of a razor.
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Friend, many and many a dream is mere confusion a cobweb of no consequence at all. Two gates for ghostly dreams there are: One gateway of honest horn, and one of ivory. Issuing by the ivory gate are dreams of glimmering illusion, fantasies, but those that come through solid polished horn may be borne out, if mortals only know them.
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I'll get out of this city alive, even if it kills me!
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Life is not to be bought with heaps of gold; Not all Apollo's Pythian treasures hold, Or Troy once held, in peace and pride of sway, Can bribe the poor possession of the day.
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Beware the toils of war ... the mesh of the huge dragnet sweeping up the world.
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But sure the eye of time beholds no name, So blest as thine in all the rolls of fame.
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Let him submit to me! Only the god of death is so relentless, Death submits to no one—so mortals hate him most of all the gods. Let him bow down to me! I am the greater king, I am the elder-born, I claim—the greater man.
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Suffering is but another name for the teaching of experience, which is the parent of instruction and the schoolmaster of life.
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From his tongue flowed speech sweeter than honey.
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The roaring seas and many a dark range of mountains lie between us.
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I only hope those rumors I hear about what goes on in prison are greatly exaggerated.
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Ah, beer, my one weakness. My Achille's heel, if you will.
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There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.
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Like a girl, a baby running after her mother, begging to be picked up, and she tugs on her skirts, holding her back as she tries to hurry off—all tears, fawning up at her, till she takes her in her arms… That’s how you look, Patroclus, streaming live tears.
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Strife, only a slight thing when she first rears her head but her head soon hits the sky as she strides across the earth.
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In youth and beauty, wisdom is but rare!
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The proof of battle is action, proof of words, debate. No time for speeches now, it's time to fight.
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See how God ever like with like doth pair, And still the worthless doth the worthless lead!
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Behold, on wrong Swift vengeance waits; and art subdues the strong.
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The sun rose on the flawless brimming sea into a sky all brazen-all one brightening for gods immortal and for mortal men on plowlands kind with grain.