Nor Does Night Conceal Men's

Obedience, You Know, Is Good Luck's Mother, Wedded To Salvation, They Say.

O Death The Healer, Scorn Thou Not, I Pray, To Come To Me: Of Cureless Ills Thou Art The One Physician. Pain Lays Not Its Touch Upon A Corpse.

For The Poison Of Hatred Seated Near The Heart Doubles The Burden For The One Who Suffers The Disease; He Is Burdened With His Own Sorrow, And Groans On Seeing Another's Happiness.

Self-will In The Man Who Does Not Reckon Wisely Is By Itself The Weakest Of All Things.

In Few Men Is It Part Of Nature To Respect A Friend's Prosperity Without Begrudging Him.