For children preserve the fame of a man after his death.

For there is no defense for a man who, in the excess of his wealth, has kicked the great altar of Justice out of sight.

Oh, the torment bred in the race,
the grinding scream of death
and the stroke that hits the vein,
the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,
the curse no man can bear.

But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no,
not from others but from them,
their bloody strife. We sing to you,
dark gods beneath the earth.

Now hear, you blissful powers underground --
answer the call, send help.
Bless the children, give them triumph now.

There's nothing certain in a man's life except this: That he must lose it.

Preserve my artistic creativity and ennoble my artistic fame.

It is best for the wise man not to seem wise.