Black Smoke, The Flickering Sister Of Fire.

Truly Even He Errs That Is Wiser Than The Wise.

Unjustly Men Hate Death, Which Is The Greatest Defence Against Their Many Ills.

O Death The Healer, Scorn Thou Not, I Pray, To Come To Me: Of Cureless Ills Thou Art The One Physician. Pain Lays Not Its Touch Upon A Corpse.

Learning Is Ever In The Freshness Of Its Youth, Even For The Old.

A Man Dies Not For The Many Wounds That Pierce His Breast, Unless It Be That Life's End Keep Pace With Death, Nor By Sitting On His Hearth At Home Doth He The More Escape His Appointed Doom.