Wine Can Of Their Wits The Wise

Anger, Which, Far Sweeter Than Trickling Drops Of Honey, Rises In The Bosom Of A Man Like Smoke.

Still, We Will Let All This Be A Thing Of The Past, Though It Hurts Us, And Beat Down By Constraint The Anger That Rises Inside Us. Now I Am Making An End Of My Anger. It Does Not Become Me, Unrelentingly To Rage On

Beware The Toils Of War ... The Mesh Of The Huge Dragnet Sweeping Up The World.

Sleep And Death, Who Are Twin Brothers.

It Is Not Strength, But Art, Obtains The Prize, And To Be Swift Is Less Than To Be Wise.