It Hurts Not The Tongue To Give

Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

To This Urn Let Those Repair That Are Either True Or Fair; For These Dead Birds Sigh A Prayer.

Praise Us As We Are Tasted, Allow Us As We Prove.

Hardness Ever Of Hardness Is Mother.

I Will Live In Thy Heart, Die In Thy Lap, And Be Buried In Thy Eyes—and Moreover, I Will Go With Thee To Thy Uncle’s.