Truly Even He Errs That Is Wiser

From A Just Fraud God Turneth Not Away.

Remember To Be Submissive, Thou Art Analien, A Fugitive, And In Need.

Don't You Know This, That Words Are Doctors To A Diseased Temperment?

The Seed Of Mortals Broods O'er Passing Things, And Hath Nought Surer Than The Smoke-cloud's Shadow.

Old Men, What Are They? Fast Fading The Leaf, Three-footed They Walk, Yet Frail As A Child, As A Dream Set Afloat In The Daylight.