For Ares, lord of strife,	Who doth the swaying scales of battle hold,	 War’s money-changer, giving dust for gold,	 Sends back, to hearts that held them dear,	Scant ash of warriors, wept with many a tear,	Light to the hand, but heavy to the soul;	  Yea, fills the light urn full	 With what survived the flame—	Death’s dusty measure of a hero’s frame!
Aeschylus, Agamemnon
ares, war