Obedience Is The Mother Of

I Warn The Marauder Dragging Plunder, Chaotic, Rich Beyond All Rights: He'll Strike His Sails, Harried At Long Last, Stunned When The Squalls Of Torment Break His Spars To Bits.

Only When A Man's Life Comes To Its End In Prosperity Dare We Pronounce Him Happy.

But I Will Place This Carefully Fed Pig Within The Crackling Oven; And, I Pray, What Nicer Dish Can E'er Be Given To Man.

Bronze Is The Mirror Of Form, Wine Of The Heart.

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.