Homer ("Smyrns of Chios")

By Jove the stranger and the poor are sent,
And what to those we give, to Jove is lent.

By Jove the stranger and the poor are sent,
And what to those we give, to Jove is lent.

Anger, which, far sweeter than trickling drops of honey, rises in
the bosom of a man like smoke.

Anger, which, far sweeter than trickling drops of honey, rises in
the bosom of a man like smoke.

(Orion) A hunter of shadows, himself a shade.

(Orion) A hunter of shadows, himself a shade.

Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe,
Are lost on hearers that our merits know.

Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe,
Are lost on hearers that our merits know.

This, this is misery! the last, the worst,
That man can feel.

This, this is misery! the last, the worst,
That man can feel.