Let there be wealth without tears; enough for the wise man who will ask no further. - Aeschylus

Ah state of mortal man! in time of weal,
A line, a shadow! and if ill fate fall,
One wet sponge-sweep wipes all our trace away.

Now, by the altar,
Over the victim
Ripe for our ritual,
Sing this enchantment:
A song without music,
A sword in the senses,
A storm in the heart
And a fire in the brain;
A clamour of Furies
To paralyse reason,
A tune full of terror,
A drought in the soul!

Г е р м е с Мабуть у рабстві краще бути в скель оцих, Ніж Зевса-батька вісником довіреним?

П р о м е т е й Отак і треба зневажать зневажників