Truly Upon Mortals Cometh Swift

Words Are The Physicians Of A Mind Diseased.

For Somehow This Is Tyranny's Disease, To Trust No Friends.

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.

The Words Of Truth Are Simple.

It Is A Profitable Thing, If One Is Wise, To Seem Foolish.