Heart, my heart, so battered with misfortune far beyond your strength, up, and face the men who hate us. Bare your chest to the assault of the enemy,… - Archilochus of Paros

My lord Apollo, single out the guilty ones,
and in your customary way, destroy them all.

O my soul, my soul — you are mutilated helplessly
by this blade of sorrow. Yet rise and bare your chest,
face those who would attack you, be strong, give no ground.
If you defeat them, do not brag like a loudmouth,
If they beat you, don't run home and lie down to cry.
Keep some measure in your joy — or in your sadness during
crisis — that you may understand man's up-and-down life.

Let brawling waves beat his ship
against the shore, and have the mop-haired Thracians
take him naked at Salmydessos,
and he will suffer a thousand calamities
as he chews the bread of slaves.
His body will stiffen in freezing surf
as he wrestles with slimy seaweed,
and his teeth will rattle like a helpless dog,
flopped on his belly in the surge,
puking out the brine. Let me watch him grovel
in mud — for the wrong he did me:
as a traitor he trampled on our good faith,
he who was once my comrade.