A Boy Without Mischief Is Like A

The Strong Must Protect The Sweet.

And When Long Years And Seasons Wheeling Brought Around That Point Of Time Ordained For Him To Make His Passage Homeward, Trials And Dangers, Even So, Attended Him Even In Ithaca, Near Those He Loved.

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

A Generous Friendship No Cold Medium Knows, Burns With One Love, With One Resentment Glows; One Should Our Interests And Our Passions Be, My Friend Must Hate The Man That Injures Me.

That Is The Gods' Work, Spinning Threads Of Death Through The Lives Of Mortal Men, An All To Make A Song For Those To Come.