The Man Who Does Ill, Ill Must

In Every Tyrant's Heart There Springs In The End This Poison, That He Cannot Trust A Friend.

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.

When A Tongue Fails To Send Forth Appropriate Shafts, There Might Be A Word To Act As Healer Of These.

. . . It Is Yours Women's To Be Silent And Stay Within Doors.

Everyone Is Ready To Speak Ill Of A Stranger.