But either thou art frightened of a spectre beheld in sleep and hast joined the revel-rout of nether Hecate
For Night brought me not forth to be the lord of the lyre, nor to be seer or leech, but to lull to rest men’s souls.
Zeus looked late into his book.
Thereafter I ordered the life of all Hellas and of the allies, the life aforetime confused and like to that of wild beasts. First I invented number, all-wise, chiefest of sciences.
Justice, voiceless, unseen, seeth thee when thou sleepest and when thou goest forth and when thou liest down. Continually doth she attend thee, now aslant thy course, now at a later time.
Sovereign of all the gods is Fortune, and these other names are given her in vain; for she alone disposeth all things as she wills.
One must not have a manner too swift-paced.
Like maids, wine-stricken and drunk with love
Moisture meeting a current from dry land (?)
Raising to the skies the missive flame
Shooting upward, [the flame] flashed forth like lightning.
Words do provoke to senseless wrath.
The black North, a blast violent and chilling, descends in a tempest.
Naught escapes me whereof thou admonishest me; yet, for all my resolve, Nature constrains me.
Teucer, plying his bow with sure aim, stayed the Phrygians as they would overleap the foss.
So then ’tis true—no misery gnaws a free man’s soul like dishonour. Thus do I suffer, and the deep stain of my calamity ever stirs me from the depths, agitated as I am by the piercing goads of frenzy.
Another man stationed against another State
Achilles has thrown two aces and a four.
[It is hard to mark] the boundaries between the Mysians and the Phrygians.
The Cilician country and the haunts of the Syrians
The race of the Tyrrhenes, a nation that maketh drugs.
[A warrior,] sturdy, heavy-armed, terrific to the foe
On other Thessalian champions.
Dark Fate likewise laid low these valiant spearmen defending their fatherland, rich in sheep. But living is the glory of the dead who of old, steadfast in battle, clothed themselves in Ossa’s dust.
This tomb hideth the dust of Aeschylus, an Athenian, Euphorion’s son, who died in wheat-bearing Gela; his glorious valour the precinct of Marathon may proclaim, and the long-haired Medes, who knew it well.
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