“Oh, the torment bred in the race, the grinding scream of deathand the stroke that hits the vein,the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,the curse no man can bear.But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no,not from others but from them,their bloody strife. We sing to you,dark gods beneath the earth.Now hear, you blissful powers underground --answer the call, send help.Bless the children, give them triumph now.”

“But there is a cure in the house,and not outside it, no,not from others but from them,their bloody strife. We sing to you,dark gods beneath the earth.”

“But the lust for power never dies- men cannot have enough.No one will lift a hand to send it from his door, to give it warning, 'Power, never come again!”

“Your speech is pompous sounding, full of pride, as fits the lackey of the Gods. You are young and young your rule and you think the tower in which you live is free from sorrow: from it have I not seen two tyrants thrown? The third, who now is king, I shall yet live to see him fall, of all three most suddenly, most dishonored. Do you think I will crouch before your Gods, -so new-and tremble? I am far from that.”

“I gave them hope, and so turned away their eyes from death”

“The gods! long since they hold us in contempt,Scornful of gifts thus offered by the lost!Why should we fawn and flinch away from doom?”

“Bethink thee of the adage, 'Call none blest, till peaceful death have crowned a life of weal.”