And speech and thought, quick as the wind and the mood and mind for law that rules the city— all these he has taught himself and shelter from the arrows of the frost when there's rough lodging under the cold clear sky and the shafts of lashing rain— ready, resourceful man! Never without resources never an impasse as he marches on the future— only Death, from Death alone he will find no rescue but from desperate plagues ha has plotted his escapes.
Blest, they are truly blest who all their lives have never tasted devastation. For others, once the gods have rocked a house to its foundations the ruin will never cease, cresting on and on from one generation on throughout the race— like a great mounting tide driven on by savage northern gales, surging over the dead black depths roiling up from the bottom dark heaves of sand and the headlands, taking the storm's onslaught full-force, roar, and the low moaning echoes on and on
Whoever thinks that he alone possesses intelligence, the gift of eloquence, he and no one else, and character too…such men, I tell you, spread them open—you will find them empty.
You went too far, the last limits of daring— smashing against the high throne of Justice! Your life's in ruins, child—I wonder… do you pay for your father's terrible ordeal?
These arrows for your heart! Since you've raked me I loose them like an archer in my anger, arrows deadly true. You'll never escape their burning, searing force.