But we receive our breath not all for a like life; each to his several
lot is kept apart by the yoke of fate.

Now by thy grace hath Sogenes the son of Thearion been foremost
in prowess, and his glory is sung aloud among the winners of the
five-game prize.

For he is a dweller in a city that loveth song, even this city of the
spear-clashing sons of Aiakos, and exceeding fain are they to cherish
a spirit apt for the strife of the games.

If a man have good hap in his attempt, he throweth into the Muses'
stream sweet cause of song: for even deeds of might for lack of song
fall into deep darkness, and in but one way have we knowledge of a
mirror for fair deeds, if by the grace of Mnemosyne of the shining
fillet they attain unto a recompense of toils by the sound of voice
and verse.

Wise shipmates know that the wind which tarrieth shall come on the
third day, nor throw away their goods through greed of more[1]: the
rich and the poor alike fare on their way to death.

Now I have suspicion that the fame of Odysseus is become greater
than his toils, through the sweet lays that Homer sang; for over the
feigning of his winged craft something of majesty abideth, and the
excellence of his skill persuadeth us to his fables unaware.

Blind hearts have the general folk of men; for could they have
discovered the truth, never would stalwart Aias in anger for the arms