Yet While My Hector Still Survives, I

There Is No Greater Fame For A Man Than That Which He Wins With His Footwork Or The Skill Of His Hands.

And Rest At Last Where Souls Unbodied Dwell, In Ever-flowing Meads Of Asphodel.

Long Exercised In Woes.

The Melancholy Joys Of Evils Pass'd, For He Who Much Has Suffer'd, Much Will Know.

Shame Is No Comrade For The Poor, I Weet.