Agamemnon

Wisdom comes through suffering. Trouble, with its memories of pain, Drips in our hearts as we try to sleep, So men against their will Learn to practice moderation. Favours come to us from gods.

My will is mine...I shall not make it soft for you.

They sent forth men to battle, But no such men return; And home, to claim their welcome, Come ashes in an urn

In war, the first casualty is truth.

She looked just like a painting dying to speak.

There is no avoidance in delay.

Zeus, first cause, prime mover; for what thing without Zeus is done among mortals?

Rumours voiced by women come to nothing.

that we must suffer, suffer into truth. We cannot sleep, and drop by drop at the heart the pain of pain remembered comes again and we resist, but ripeness comes as well. From the gods enthroned on the awesome rowing-bench there comes a violent love.

In visions of the night, like dropping rain, Descend the many memories of pain

For many men value appearances more than reality—thus they violate what’s right. Everyone’s prepared to sigh over some suffering man, though no sorrow really eats their hearts, or they can pretend to join another person’s happiness forcing their faces into smiling masks. But a good man discerns true character— he’s not fooled by eyes feigning loyalty, favouring him with watered-down respect.

And there they ring the walls, the young, the lithe. The handsome hold the graves they won in Troy; the enemy earth rides over those who conquered.

I know the stars by heart, the armies of the night, and there in the lead the ones that bring us snow or the crops of summer, bring us all we have-- our great blazing kings of the sky, I know them, when they rise and when the fall . . .

Bastions of wealth are no deference for the man who treads the grand altar of Justice down and out of sight.

For Ares, lord of strife, Who doth the swaying scales of battle hold, War’s money-changer, giving dust for gold, Sends back, to hearts that held them dear, Scant ash of warriors, wept with many a tear, Light to the hand, but heavy to the soul; Yea, fills the light urn full With what survived the flame— Death’s dusty measure of a hero’s frame!

By the sword you did your work, and by the sword you die.

For many among men are they who set high the show of honor, yet break justice.

[. . .] we suffer and we learn. And we will know the future when it comes. Greet it too early, weep too soon. It all comes clear in the light of day.

We should know what is true before we break our rage.

At home there tarries like a lurking snake, Biding its time, a wrath unreconciled, A wily watcher, passionate to slake, In blood, resentment for a murdered child.

Look - can't you see? The more you kick against the pricks, the more you suffer.

Man must suffer to be wise. Head-winds heavy with past iol Stray his course and cooud his heart; Sorrow takes the blind soul's part-- Man grows wise against his will. For powers who rule from thrones above By ruthlessness commend their love.

When evil come on those we dearly love, never shall we betray them.

Shameless self-willed infatuation Emboldens men to dare damnation, And starts the wheels of doom which roll Relentless to their piteous goal.

[. . .] radiant dreams are passing in the night, the memories throb with sorrow, joy with pain . . . it is pain to dream and see desires slip through the arms, a vision lost for ever winging down the moving drifts of sleep.

Death is a softer thing by far than tyranny.

Let me attain no envied wealth, let me not plunder cities, neither be taken in turn, and face life in the power of another.