Joy Steals Upon Me, Such Joy As

Honor Modesty More Than Your Life.

Yet Though A Man Gets Many Wounds In Breast, He Dieth Not, Unless The Appointed Time, The Limit Of His Life's Span, Coincide; Nor Does The Man Who By The Hearth At Home Sits Still, Escape The Doom That Fate Decrees.

This Is A Sickness Rooted And Inherent In The Nature Of A Tyranny: That He That Holds It Does Not Trust His Friends.

But Still The Block Of Vengeance Firm Doth Stand, And Fate, As Swordsmith, Hammers Blow On Blow.

There Is No Disgrace In An Enemy Suffering Ill At An Enemy's Hand, When You Hate Mutually.