But Let The Good Prevail.

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.

With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others' Hands, Are We Now Smitten.

We Spoil Ourselves With Scruples Long As Things Go Well.

The Seed Of Mortals Broods O'er Passing Things, And Hath Nought Surer Than The Smoke-cloud's Shadow.

It Is An Easy Thing For One Whose Foot Is On The Outside Of Calamity To Give Advice And To Rebuke The Sufferer.