Men grow tired of sleep, love, singing and dancing, sooner than war. - Homer

Come, Friend, you too must die. Why moan about it so?
Even Patroclus died, a far, far better man than you.
And look, you see how handsome and powerful I am?
The son of a great man, the mother who gave me life — A deathless goddess. But even for me, I tell you,
Death and the strong force of fate are waiting.
There will come a dawn or sunset or high noon
When a man will take my life in battle too — flinging a spear perhaps
Or whipping a deadly arrow off his bow.

Ἐν δ' ἔπεσ' Ὠκεανῷ λαμπρὸν φάος ἠελίοιο
ἕλκον νύκτα μέλαιναν ἐπὶ ζείδωρον ἄρουραν.

But now, as it is, sorrows, unending sorrows must surge within your heart as well — for your own son’s death. Never again will you embrace him stiding home. My spirit rebels — I’ve lost the will to live, to take my stand in the world of men —