To labour is the lot of man below; And when Jove gave us life, he gave us woe.
Rather I'd choose laboriously to bear A weight of woes, and breathe the vital air, A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread, Than reign the sceptred monarch of the dead.
Long exercised in woes.
And woe succeeds woe.
Look now how mortals are blaming the gods, for they say that evils come from us, but in fact they themselves have woes beyond their share because of their own follies.
Toil is the lot of all, and bitter woe The fate of many.