Everyone's Quick To Blame The Alien.

I Pray The Gods Some Respite From The Weary Task Of This Long Year's Watch That Lying On The Atreidae's Roof On Bended Arm, Dog- Like, I Have Kept, Marking The Conclave Of All Night's Stars, Those Potentates Blazing In The Heavens That Bring Winter And Summer To Mortal Men, The Constellations, When They Wane, When They Rise.

Bronze Is The Mirror Of Form, Wine Of The Heart.

Only One Accomplishment Is Beyond Both The Power And The Mercy Of The Gods. They Cannot Make The Past As Though It Had Never Been.

Fear Is Stronger Than Arms.

It Is In The Character Of Very Few Men To Honor Without Envy A Friend Who Has Prospered.