SÁNCHEZ RODRÍGUEZ ALAN YAEL

AYALA CHÁVEZ DULCE MARÍA

PEÑA ASTORGA JESÚS SANTIAGO

ESTRADA TORRES ANGELA LUCIA

LARA VERGARA DIEGO

BALDAZO QUINTANA VERÓNICA

HERNÁNDEZ HERNÁNDEZ ASHLY KAROL

OCAMPO OCAMPO ALEXA MICHELLE

AGUIRRE JUAREZ GENARO

CATALÁN VERA SAMAEL

Adiel castro

Bellaneira Sanchez

Fátima Rodríguez

ALVAREZ ANDADRE UBED JUSMAR

BUSTOS RUEDA VIVIAN DENISSE

Mabel reinoso

Roberto moto

Sara Puga

Hernández Amador Danna Estefany

Indira Andrea Solano Toledano

Today was my first day of the new semester. In the morning, I was a little nervous because I did not know what to expect. I thought my first class started at 2:10 p.m., but it actually started at 12:10 p.m. Luckily, I still arrived to school on time. When I got there, I felt more relaxed.

The best part was seeing my friends again. We met near the entrance and started talking like always. We laughed about our vacations and complained a little about going back to school. It felt normal, like nothing had changed. That made me feel comfortable on the first day.

Classes were okay. Nothing too difficult, just teachers explaining the rules and the schedule. I tried to pay attention, but I was also excited to talk with my friends during the break.

At lunch break, we sat together and started eating. We were just talking about random things and joking. Suddenly, a girl came to our table. We did not know her very well. She looked at us and said that we had a really good style. She said she liked how we dressed. Then she smiled and left.

We all looked at each other in silence for a moment. It was very random and a little strange, but also funny. We started laughing and making jokes about it. It was a small moment, but it made the day more interesting.

After that, the day continued normally. More classes, more talking, and more planning for the semester. Even if nothing very big happened, it felt good to be back. Seeing my friends again made the first day better.

At the end of the day, I felt calm. It was not a perfect or dramatic first day, but it was real. I arrived on time, saw my friends, and even had a random compliment during lunch. It was a good start for this semester.

I went out of my house and took the bus and in the bus i stayed sleep but i woke up at Midway and i saw parts of a body so I called the police, I sleep again and i woke up when I was arriving to school. When I arrived I took just one class and then I went home.

I was excited to see my friends again.

When I arrived, I was confused about which classroom I was going to have class in. After spending a long time looking for it and going up and down the stairs several times, I found the teacher and followed him.

The first thing I noticed was that my friends were not there; I didn’t know anybody. Fortunately, time went by fast, and I met up with my friends later. I was relieved.

We waiting around 20 minute until someone went to ask Adleni, so she told us that the classes starting the next week

Now, In the real first day, we came back and took the first subject and we talked about Roma Empire and ancient Greece, and me (Indira) was very scary and worried because the teacher look strict

But in the end, it was a great day!!

I left my house to go to the bus stop, and the bus was already there, so I had to run to catch it. I made it, but it was so full that I was almost standing on the steps and the door wouldn’t even close. I got to the university, and when I finally found my classroom, I saw my friends. We went into class, and I was telling them what had happened to me that morning when the professor saw me and told me to come to the front and say what I was talking about. I told her no and apologized, saying I would be quiet, but she insisted for about 15 minutes in front of the whole class. Unfortunately, that was my first impression with that professor, and I cried because I felt embarrassed, even though that wasn’t her intention.

Hear me, O Reader, and bear witness to a modest tragedy—
not of war or blood,
but of suffixes.

There was a day, appointed by Fate and approved (no doubt) by Zeus himself, when I believed myself a rational and educated mortal. I stood firm in my confidence, armed with logic, experience, and a dangerous assumption: that classic and classical were one and the same. This belief, though sincere, was an act of hubris—and the gods are never kind to hubris.

English, that crafty and many-headed language, observed me from afar. Athena, goddess of wisdom, raised an eyebrow. Hermes, patron of tricksters and confusing footnotes, smiled. The trap was set.

When first I encountered the distinction between classical literature and classic literature, I assumed—reasonably, or so I thought—that a careless scribe had added two unnecessary letters. Surely “-al” was ornamental, like a decorative column that holds nothing up. Classic and classical sounded alike, behaved alike, and appeared equally determined to fill syllabi and frighten students.

But no. The Moirai had spun another thread.

Classical literature, it was revealed to me, belongs to the ancient world: Greece and Rome, where men spoke in speeches, emotions were disciplined, and destiny ruled with an iron hand. These were works shaped by order and proportion, constructed according to strict forms, as if even poetry feared chaos. Homer sang of heroes who embodied honor and excellence (aretē), Sophocles warned of kings who argued with Fate and always lost, and the gods—oh, the gods—intervened constantly, usually to prove a point.

These texts were not merely old; they were foundational. They instructed citizens, reinforced civic duty, and reminded mortals of a vital truth: think carefully, act honorably, and never assume you are smarter than Apollo. Their language was elevated, ceremonial, and proud—so proud, in fact, that it never apologized for being difficult.

Meanwhile, classic literature entered the scene like a calmer, more approachable cousin. It did not swear allegiance to antiquity. A classic could emerge centuries later, so long as it endured, instructed, and reflected the human condition. Jane Austen, Orwell, Fitzgerald, and Harper Lee did not invoke Zeus, yet they explored love, power, injustice, and society with equal seriousness—though with fewer oracles and significantly better tea.

The gods themselves approved this distinction. Athena favored the classics for their insight. Apollo admired their balance. Even Hades respected a book that refused to die.

And then came the law—spoken not by man, but by grammar itself:

All classical literature is classic,
but not all classic literature is classical.

At this moment, thunder rolled. Zeus nodded. The lesson was complete.

Thus, The Odyssey stands as both classical and classic, blessed by age and endurance. 1984 is classic, but not classical—timeless, yet unacquainted with togas. Shakespeare, revered by all, is a classic tragedian, though he arrived too late to dine on Olympus.

When I finally grasped this truth, I felt what Aristotle would call a measured emotion: pride, tempered by irritation, governed by reason. I had learned. Order was restored. The cosmos made sense again.

And so, O Reader, let this tale instruct you as classical literature demands:
Respect distinctions. Beware of small suffixes. And remember—
if two letters can cause this much suffering, English is clearly under the protection of Hermes.

May the gods have mercy on us when we reach adjectives like historic and historical.

Thus I journeyed to the vast halls of learning, whose corridors stretched like the winding paths of an ancient labyrinth.

Confusion walked beside me as a cunning spirit, and I knew not the sacred chamber where my trials would begin. Up the towering stairs I climbed like one ascending a mountain of stone; down again I descended, tireless and determined. Long did I wander until at last I beheld the Teacher, steadfast as an old captain guiding lost sailors to safe harbor. In his steps I followed, hopeful and resolute.

But when I crossed the threshold, a shadow fell upon my spirit, for my companions were absent, and I sat among strangers whose faces were unknown as distant lands. Silence surrounded me like a heavy shield, and I endured the slow passing of the hours with patience worthy of heroes. Yet Time, swift as Hermes and unstoppable as fate, carried the day forward. Soon I was reunited with my friends, and joy returned like sunlight after a long storm. Then the burden left my heart, and relief flowed through me like calm waters after the raging sea.

Hear, O reader, the tale of a humble student whose first day of the semester shook the heavens and stirred the ancient gods from their eternal watch.

For many moons, I believed my first lesson would begin at 2:10 in the afternoon. Such was the illusion placed upon me by the mischievous spirits of Time. Yet the sacred schedule, carved perhaps by the stern hand of Chronos himself, declared the hour to be 12:10. Still, guided by destiny and protected by unseen forces, I arrived at the great gates of the academy exactly when fate demanded.

As my foot crossed the entrance, the winds shifted. The marble floors seemed to glow. From distant corners of the courtyard, my companions appeared one by one, as if summoned by a horn of reunion blown by Hermes. We embraced like heroes returning from a long war. Our laughter rose like thunder across the halls, echoing through lockers and classrooms as though Olympus itself approved of our gathering.

“Behold,” I thought, “the fellowship is restored.”

The teachers, wise as ancient oracles, spoke from their desks as if seated upon thrones. Their voices carried the weight of forgotten prophecies: syllabi, rules, expectations. I listened with the focus of a knight receiving sacred instructions before a quest. Yet my heart awaited the hour of rest, when we would gather to feast.

At last, the bell rang — a sound not of metal, but of destiny. We assembled at a table during our break, spreading our food like offerings upon an altar. We spoke of victories, defeats, and trivial matters that, in that moment, felt as important as the fall of empires.

Then it happened.

From beyond our circle, a mysterious maiden approached. None knew her origin. None had seen her descend from the clouds, but surely she had. She stepped forward with the confidence of a messenger sent by Aphrodite and Apollo together. The air grew still. Time paused. Even the distant chatter of students faded into silence.

She spoke.

“You have a good style,” she declared.

These words, simple yet powerful, struck us like divine lightning. Complimented by a stranger! On the first day! Surely this was no ordinary event. Perhaps the gods themselves had judged our garments worthy. Perhaps we had unknowingly dressed for war and been mistaken for legends.

And then, as quickly as she appeared, she vanished into the crowd — a vision, a prophecy, a myth.

We sat frozen, stunned by the magnitude of the encounter. Had we been blessed? Tested? Chosen? No one could say. Then, as mortals do when faced with the absurdity of fate, we laughed. Our laughter roared like a storm over the sea.

The rest of the day unfolded like the calm after a great omen. Classes passed. Hours moved. The sun crossed the sky as Helios drove his chariot onward. Though no dragons were slain and no kingdoms conquered, we knew this day would be remembered.

For on this sacred first day, we arrived on time, reunited with our allies, and received an unexpected blessing from a wandering oracle of style.

Thus begins the semester — not with silence, but with legend.

Though my limbs felt like stone, the Fates called. I had duties to the Great Lyceum—the temple of knowledge—that could not be ignored. With a heavy heart, I rose from my couch and stepped out into the world.

Instead of a common carriage, I boarded a great iron chariot that groaned like a wounded titan. No sooner had I taken my seat than Hypnos struck me again with his dark wand, and I drifted into a dreamless void. Suddenly, the chariot jolted, and my eyes flew open. There, at the midpoint of my journey, the veil of the mundane was torn away. Scattered upon the earth were the grisly remnants of a mortal frame—a dark sacrifice or a cruel deed left in the wake of Ares.

Terrified by this grim omen, I sent word to the Guardians of the City (the iron-clad sentinels of law) to cleanse the path. Shaken, I surrendered once more to the fog of sleep, letting the winds of Zephyrus carry me toward my destination. I awoke only as the iron chariot reached the gates of the Lyceum. I crossed the threshold and sat before a single master, drinking in the wisdom of a solitary lecture. But the weight of my previous labors was a mountain upon my back.

Having paid my respects to the gods of learning, I turned my back on the marble halls and retraced my path, seeking the sanctuary of my own hearth and the quiet peace of my home.

For a measured span of time, we waited in patience, observing the place as silent witnesses. At last, one among us sought counsel from Adleni, who, speaking with calm authority, revealed the truth decreed by order: the classes would commence in the following week. Thus, knowledge corrected haste, and reason restored balance.

When the true first day arrived, we returned as duty required. We entered our first lesson, where the discourse turned to the Roman Empire and to ancient Greece, those pillars of civilization whose laws, virtues, and reason still govern the minds of scholars. I, Indira, felt the weight of apprehension, for the teacher appeared severe, a guardian of discipline and order. Yet fear, once examined by reason, lost its power.

By the end of the day, harmony was restored. What began with uncertainty concluded in understanding, and what was feared revealed itself as worthy and good. Thus we learned our first lesson: that order triumphs over confusion, and that reason, guided by discipline, leads the soul toward virtue and knowledge.

I hastened toward the bath, seeking to restore order to my appearance, for it is shameful for a student to enter the house of learning in disorder. Yet Fortune, who delights in testing the unprepared, struck again: the water was cold, for the gas had been exhausted. Still, I endured it without complaint, remembering that a mind trained in virtue must not be ruled by comfort.

Having dressed, I found no leisure to take bread or drink, for Time—stern and unyielding—had already carried the morning beyond my reach. Therefore, I departed swiftly for the public road.

When I arrived at the bus stop, the vehicle of the city was already present, as if Fate had placed it there to measure my resolve. I ran, and by effort I entered. Yet it was crowded beyond what is fitting, so that men stood pressed together like grain in a full sack, and even the steps were occupied, while the door struggled to close. In this I saw a lesson: when citizens do not govern their affairs with measure, disorder spreads not only in the home, but in the common life of all.

At last I reached the university, that noble place where knowledge is honored and the young are shaped into useful members of the city. I sought my classroom, and when I found it, I encountered my companions. We entered together, and I began to recount the trials of the morning, not to boast, but to explain my delay.

But the professor—guardian of order, appointed to preserve discipline—observed me and commanded that I come forward and declare before all what I had been speaking. I refused, not out of defiance, but from modesty, and I apologized, promising silence. Yet she persisted, questioning me for a long time in the presence of the assembly, as if the matter were not private but public.

Then, though her intention was not cruelty, my spirit was shaken. For the first encounter between student and teacher is like the laying of a foundation stone: if it is placed poorly, the structure above it trembles. And I, unable to master myself in that moment, wept—not because tears are noble, but because shame overcame reason.

Still, when I reflected afterward, I understood the higher law that governs such events. The gods—or whatever power rules the order of the world—had allowed this chain of misfortunes not to destroy me, but to instruct me. For it is not enough to pursue learning with intelligence alone: one must also cultivate discipline, foresight, and restraint.

Thus I learned this truth, useful to all who seek honor in public life:

He who would serve knowledge and the city must first govern himself.

O noble pizza, crowned with melted gold,
Bearer of comfort in the weary night,
How glorious you appeared before my hungry eyes!
Your scent rose like incense from the humble box,
Promising peace after the wounds of the day.

I raised you with reverence,
As kings once lifted sacred offerings to the gods.
But fate, jealous of mortal happiness,
Cast you downward in one tragic instant.
You struck the floor with silent dignity,
A hero fallen before the feast began.

O pizza, brief companion of my suffering,
Though your crust now rests among dust and despair,
Your memory shall endure within my heart forever.

1. The Epic Style

In the grand tradition of ancient heroes, where a simple Wi-Fi disconnection becomes a cosmic battle against the elements.

Hearken, muses, to the tale of the Digital Warrior, who stood poised at the gates of Great Knowledge, fingers hovering above the glowing talisman of learning. The hour of instruction was nigh, and the great scrolls of the Zoom screen beckoned.

But lo! A shadow fell upon the realm. Humbaba of the Power Grid struck without warning, severing the unseen threads of the Wi-Fi. The sacred blue light vanished; the great rectangular portal dimmed to absolute black. Cut off from the council of elders and peers, the warrior was left stranded in the quiet dark, armed only with a rapidly draining cellular device. Thus, the quest for enlightenment was thwarted, not by lack of will, but by the cruel, sudden whim of the Sparks.

2. The Ode Style

A lofty, passionate address celebrating the sheer, dramatic magnitude of the sudden blackout.

Ode to the Severed Signal

Oh, Mighty Current! Invisible river of the modern mind! How grandly thou didst flow through the copper veins of my dwelling, Feeding the glowing beast that binds me to my scholars!

How spectacular was thy sudden, absolute flight! In one magnificent breath, thou didst grant a freedom unasked for, Snapping the digital chains that tied me to the lecture. Though my heart yearned for the wisdom of the screen, I stand in awe of thy absolute power, Oh Great Blackout— You who silences the professors and humbles the eager student in a single, silent stroke!

3. The Elegy Style

A somber, mournful lament for the lost opportunity, the missed attendance, and the dead router.

Lament for a Dead Router

The green lights have faded, and darkness reigns supreme. Where once there was the hum of progress, now hangs only the heavy silence of an empty room. The clock strikes the hour, but the portal remains barred; My attendance token is lost to the ether, a ghost of what should have been.

I sit in the dim quiet, mourning the lecture I shall never hear, The notes that shall remain forever unwritten. The router sits cold upon the shelf, a plastic monument to lost connection. Alas, sweet Wi-Fi, you were taken too soon, Leaving me alone with my thoughts, and a battery at fifteen percent.

So the boy left carelessly,
armed with nothing but worn headphones
and a dying phone trembling at 3%.

He walked through the city to the rhythm of music,
thinking himself untouchable.

Then the heavens turned.

Rain crashed upon the streets without mercy,
drenching him like a forgotten soldier abandoned by the gods.
His clothes grew heavy.
His shoes became rivers.

And worst of all—

his headphones died.

The music vanished.
Only thunder remained.

He looked upon his phone once more:

2%.

A weaker man may have surrendered there.

But the boy pressed onward through the storm,
cold, exhausted, and alone,
wandering beneath dark skies
like the final survivor of a fallen kingdom.

And though no songs would ever be written of that journey,

he would remember it forever.

The shadows lengthen on the cooling grit, As twilight claims the margins of the day. The vibrant fire that the heavens lit Sinks low, and softly bleeds itself away.

The tide retreats in whispers, slow and deep, A solemn mourner for the day's demise. The sea-birds fold their wings and drift to sleep, Under the gaze of cold, awakening skies. The golden warmth is now a memory, Drowned in the dark, gray waters of the sea.

But fate, cruel mother of humiliation,
Hid within thy tender heart a beast—
A loathsome cockroach, dark and wicked,
Sleeping where sweetness ought to dwell.

My mouth became a battlefield of horror,
My stomach turned against the earth,
And like a tragic hero struck by plague,
I cast my soul into the nearest sink.

O bread of doom! O tiny demon vessel!
Never again shall I trust baked delights
Whose sugary perfume masks corruption
Like senators hiding daggers beneath their robes.

Under the fierce and golden sun,
I rose against my weary soul
And walked beyond my humble home
To seek provisions for my cats.

Great was the heat upon the earth,
And strong the chains of laziness,
Yet stronger still the love I bore
For those small rulers of my house.

Like heroes sung in ancient tales,
I conquered streets of fire and light,
And proudly carried home the prize
That would relieve my noble cats.

But fate, eternal enemy,
Prepared a cruel defeat for me:
The meal awaiting on my stove
Had fallen to my cats’ desire.

And when I offered them their food,
Those tiny kings refused the feast,
For they had dined before my return
And left their weary hero hungry.

when the sacred aroma of breakfast filled the air,

I approached the refrigerator with hope in my heart,

dreaming of the golden glory

of my beloved orange juice.

But fate is cruel.

I lifted the carton—

light as a feather, empty as my soul.

Not a single drop remained.

In that terrible moment,

the toast lost its warmth,

the eggs their purpose,

and the morning itself grew dim.

For what now shall accompany my breakfast?

Water, tasteless and cold?

Coffee, bitter as despair?

No drink could replace

the radiant nectar I had lost.

And so I sat there in silence,

mourning the fall of my morning kingdom.

Upon the roads of roaring light,

a young girl faced her driving fright.

Her father patiently showed the way,

through stressful lessons every day.

The clutch confused, the brakes would squeal,

left and right became unreal.

“Turn left!” her father cried in fear,

yet somehow right would soon appear.

At last she said, “This driving craze

is far too stressful all these days.

My father drives much better than me…

so I’ll stay passenger happily!”

Two souls that loved, but never could align.

A bitter truth that took so long to learn:

The stars refused to grant us their design.

We shared a fire, magnificent and real,

A truth no passing shadow can deny;

He loved me with a force that I could feel,

And yet, we watched our fortress fade and die.

Now comes the silence, heavier than stone,

A cruel eclipse where once the sunlight gleamed.

His absence is a flame upon the bone,

A sudden void where once a future dreamed.

For thirty nights, the heavy tears have fallen,

A quiet mourning for a sacred past;

Some days I know the higher path was chosen,

On others, nausea grips me to the last.

Perhaps the Fates had drawn a different line,

And we were never destined for the crown.

Two warriors trapped within a grand design,

Who had to lay their heavy armor down.

The battlefield is quiet, scarred, and cold,

And all that remains is the long, slow climb.

To heal the wounds, to let the dust turn old,

And reclaim myself from the hands of time.

I walk alone into the fading light,

To fight the ghost of what we used to be.

A solitary soldier in the night,

Rebuilding kingdoms out of memory.

You tore me open and set my heart free.

I cried, I sang till my throat gave out,

Every lyric a prayer screamed to the sky.

To see the voice that saved me, made flesh,

To stand with strangers who felt like kin,

For one song, I was infinite.

I have searched through quiet days since then,

But nothing has burned like we did that night.

So I bless the ache. It means I was alive.

My friends all laughed, the wind blew free,
It felt like grand adventure to me.
That happy day still shines so bright,
A treasured memory full of light.

The cosmos holds its breath, a silent tease,
As sudden warmth confronts a chilling breeze.
The traveler stands before the wooden door,
Unsure of what the roaring clouds implore;
His armor-coat is gripped in hesitant hand,
Against the shifting legions of the land.

Above the realm, a vault of brilliant blue
Is crushed by thunder to a darker hue.
We march beneath a fickle, ancient crown,
Where phantom shadows hunt across the town.
No mortal map can trace the wandering wind,
Where storm and sun are tragically entwined.

We look to high Olympus, pass the gate,
And let the roaring skies decide our fate.

My cousin and I, with flour in the air,

Prepared a mighty cake with hope and pride,

Believing victory stood by our side.

We mixed the batter, strong with joyful cheer,

While sweet aromas told us triumph near.

Into the oven went our precious prize,

A golden dream beneath the watchful skies.

The minutes passed; our patience wore so thin,

Until at last—we checked what lay within.

With reckless haste, we opened wide the door,

Unaware of fate and baking’s ancient law.

The mighty cake, once risen proud and tall,

Began to sink—its glorious, tragic fall.

Before our eyes, our masterpiece gave way,

Defeated by impatience on that day.

Yet still we laughed and shared the cake we made,

Though victory had slowly slipped and swayed.

For legends teach through failure, not success:

Never rush a cake in its great process.

Daniel had raised his son Chris with many rules. Chris had to study every evening, come home early, and avoid trouble at all costs. Michael, who never had children of his own, often laughed at Daniel’s methods. “Young people need trust,” he would say. “If you control them too much, they only become secretive.”

One evening, Daniel arrived home furious after discovering that Chris had disappeared without permission. The neighbors whispered that they had seen him downtown with loud friends near a concert hall. Daniel immediately blamed Michael.

“You spoiled him!” Daniel shouted while storming into Michael’s apartment. “You let him think life is just fun and freedom.”

Michael calmly poured himself a cup of coffee. “Maybe he simply wanted to enjoy himself for one night,” he replied.

But the truth was far more complicated. Chris had not gone out for himself at all. His younger cousin Leo, Daniel’s second son, had fallen deeply in love with a girl named Sofia. Leo was too shy to meet her family because they were wealthy and intimidating. Wanting to help his brother, Chris secretly arranged a meeting between the two and even borrowed money to buy Sofia a gift. Unfortunately, the situation created rumors around the neighborhood, and everyone assumed Chris was behaving irresponsibly.

The next day, Daniel confronted Chris in front of the entire family. Chris remained silent, protecting Leo’s secret. Michael noticed this and realized there had to be another explanation. Later that evening, Leo finally confessed the truth. He admitted that Chris had sacrificed his own reputation just to help him find happiness.

Daniel felt ashamed. For years he had believed strict control was the only way to guide his children, yet he had failed to see Chris’s kindness and loyalty. Meanwhile, Michael admitted that too much freedom could also create misunderstandings and problems.

When Sofia’s family eventually learned the truth, they were touched by Chris’s honesty and Leo’s sincere love. They accepted the relationship, and peace slowly returned to the family.

A few weeks later, Daniel invited everyone to dinner. To the surprise of the family, he smiled more than usual and even allowed music to play loudly during the meal. Michael laughed and raised his glass.

“So,” he asked jokingly, “have you finally become less strict?”

Daniel shook his head with a small grin. “Not completely,” he answered. “But perhaps I’ve learned that understanding people is just as important as correcting them.”

The brothers exchanged smiles, realizing that neither complete strictness nor complete freedom was perfect. Wisdom, they discovered, came from balancing both.

Roman Empire?

Roman heroes?

Roman gods or goddesses?

the Troyans?

Jilius Caesar and Augustus?

Roman Heroes: Protagonists of epic tales who achieved great things.

Roman god or goddesses: There were a lot of them in the pantheon. It was very influenced by the greek deities. Venus, Apollo.

Trojans: Independent society. Trojan horse.

Julius Ceasar and Augustus: They were emperors of Rome and were related, Ceasar was known for his strategies.

Was a powerful empire that dominate much of Europe, Africa and Middle East with a siciety divided into nobles, plebeians and slaves.

Roman Heroes

Romulus, Remus, Aeneas, Julus Caesar, Augustus

Roman gods and goddesses

Jupiter, Juno, Neptuno, Venus, Mars, Diana, Mercury, Pluto, Saturn

Troyans

They were and anciet society

Julius Caesar and Augustus

Militars and emperors of Rome, intelligents and strategics

2.Romulo y Remo

3. Jupiter and Mars) whom the Romans worshipped to ensure the success of the State

4. Inhabitants of the city of Troy who were defeated by the Greeks after the deception of the famous wooden horse.

5. The leaders who changed Rome; Caesar was the dictator who was assassinated

They used to speak Old English.

They valued family and loyalty and lived off of the land and farming.

They were a multitude of tribes and small rival kingdoms, such as Wessex or Mercia, who were always fighting amongst themselves or against the Celts.

The territory was divided into several kingdoms.

They laid the foundations of the English language.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause—there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.