Down From His Brow She Ran His

We Battle On In Words, As Always, Mere Words, And What's The Cure? We Cannot Find A Thing.

Most Grievous Of All Deaths It Is To Die Of Hunger.

Bursts As A Wave That From The Clouds Impends, And Swell'd With Tempests On The Ship Descends; White Are The Decks With Foam; The Winds Aloud Howl O'er The Masts, And Sing Through Every Shroud: Pale, Trembling, Tir'd, The Sailors Freeze With Fears; And Instant Death On Every Wave Appears.

A Sound Mind In A Manly Body.

I Say No Wealth Is Worth My Life.